Liberté
by arctickitties
Summary: A new world. Hunger, pollution, machinery, aristocrats; many are the enemies. The war against Canada aggravates, people are disappearing and the misery reigns. From the dust, students raise the red flag to combat the oppression. La Resistance is born. A man believes in pacific fight, the other one believes radicalism is necessary. Kyle is right in between. AU - Style, Tophlovski.
1. May 12

_The workers do not work._

_The politicians speak but do not say._

_The voters vote but do not choose._

_The information means misinform._

_The teaching centers teach to ignore._

_The judges condemn the victims._

_The military are in war against their own compatriots._

_The police do not fight crimes because they are too busy committing them._

_Bankruptcies are socialized, profits are privatized._

_The money is freer than the people are._

_And the people are at service of things._

_("El Sistema" – Eduardo Galeano) _

May 12th, 3660

Our story will be divided into two times. I believe that's the first thing you should know about everything that will happen when we move forward. There's a long way to go, don't fool yourself. I recommend you to leave all of your beliefs, your deepest moral and philosophical concepts at the door before you come in, because depending on the time in which you live, some of the things that I'll tell you may seem murky, confusing, even wrong. Don't think anyone is wrong here; right and wrong don't belong to the nature of war. War is an art like any other, very complicated to be defined, but it has some very specific criteria known by those who dominate it. I've never been one of those people. But giving the world in which I lived a long time ago, and the people I've met, the society in which I grew up, I understand enough to guide you through this story. Take your shoes off, get comfortable.

I feel a little manipulative here. It's not even _my_ story, to be honest. Not really. There is a difference of voices and times between the two sides of the same story you'll be told. But both sides happen in the same place, with the same people, although the place is no longer the same and people are no longer the same either. People are never the same. Confused, already? I'll be clearer then: I'll be your first narrator, and that's how I want to be treated for now. Even though I'll report situations that I have witnessed, I'll keep myself in the third person not to compromise your judgment. At some point, I'll tell you my real identity, how about that? I know it's a little too much, asking for you to trust me, a man who can't even say his own name. Oh well. Let's do this.

Our tale takes place in South Park, a little mountain town in Colorado, United States, today known as The Old Republic. The year is 3660. There are many records from the past about the way people visualized the world in the future, portraying technological scenarios, robots, flying cars, all kinds of nonsense. To be fair, maybe that was the way the world was heading to until 2900. According to the History books, that was the year of the outbreak of World War III. That must have been such a mess, Jesus. The world population was significantly reduced. It's funny when you read about these events in History books (and yes, the books still persist, always will) but it makes all the chaos sound so banal, as if the changes had been very simple. "There was a twenty years long war, five billion people died, a new era began", a whole eradication reduced to a few words. I'm glad I'm not a History book, and I'll try my best to make you understand that nothing, absolutely nothing, was simple at that time. I won't bore you with details about the world I lived in, since they'll naturally appear with the course of events.

The second time, which actually happens first, will be told by a young man named Kyle Broflovski. But when Kyle tell you the story, he won't be aware of your presence, not as I am. So don't be sad if he ignores you, he doesn't know you're there. For Kyle's reports are extracted from the records he made at that time; the year of 3646, when he was just a nineteen years old fellow. Such records are essential to the understanding of the story. I won't show you things that Kyle has written; it'll be more intimate than that: he'll relate you the ideas and thought directly through his worldview. I like to wander through his mind, his memories. I think Kyle is the person I love most in this world.

But he's changed. Allow me to introduce him.

The man of whom I speak still has the reddest hair ever seen, which suited perfectly well with the ten years old coat he's wearing right now, in the same color, slightly torn in the elbows. The white shirt can be seen underneath, all sloppy in his body as if it had been used to sleep. It was possible that it had indeed. A lock of hair falls over his leopard eyes, his pupils enlarged by the darkness of the room, and his green iris with yellow stains is curiously shining in the dim light of the lamp, in bright contrast. The table before him looks quite messy, full of piles of paper, some of them stained with brown circles from a forgotten cup of coffee, pens scattered and hidden in the folds of open books. Let me tell you, there was a time when this kind of thing would have made Kyle develop a nervous rattle rash or something. He used to be the most organized person I have ever met. However, in those times, back then, the priorities were very different. Now there is no time to put the books in alphabetical order on the shelf. Well, anyway. I would like you to pay attention to the important details on his skin, starting with the face. Mark well the face of Kyle Broflovski, my friend. It is freaking unforgettable. The scar that cuts just below the eye, the thin skin darkened by tired circles, and halfway down his soft cheek, that helps you remember. It was not a new incision. How Kyle got that scar is a hell of a story. It was made with broken glass over ten years ago, but I'll let him tell you about it when it comes to it. For now, the only thing that matters is that you know it's there, deforming the left side of his face every time he offers a worried smile. That is the only kind of smile he knows how to give these days. Well, Kyle is not smiling now. He rises his chin a little more, resting his palms down on a yellowish sheet with words typed in French. He speaks it fluently.

Kyle is thirty-two years old, if you haven't yet done the math. He will turn thirty-three in two weeks. Gregory made a little joke this morning about that being the age of Christ, but this sort of thing is far from Kyle's mind right now. He doesn't think about Jesus all that often anyway.

It is late at night. In 72 seconds, an important man will enter the room. Kyle wears a silver ring with an onyx stone in his pinky, but it is too wide for the circumference of his finger, dancing loose as he slides a hand through his curly hair. If you are interested in this sort of thing, the room is large, consisted by shades of brown; besides the lamp, the immense window allows the entry of the moon's weak green light, but it's hidden behind dark clouds and pollution that always turns the skies reddened as the sun reigns and dark teal when it is night. Things are different now, but Kyle doesn't know that because, ever since he was born, the world has been the way it is now. It is all he knows, the green moon and the sky as red-brown as clay. He clears his throat and switches the hand that holds the pen as if he knew how to write with the right one. Leopard eyes cautiously study the void, oblivious to the mess on the table, focused on something that is not there. He presses his lips as he scratches his jaw, using the hand that keeps the pen between the fingers, gently closing his eyelids. His concentration is only broken by the sound of a knock on the door.

"Come in."

He turns his head back - the chair is always facing back to the door, for whatever reason - but it is not a man that he sees first. Instead, Kyle lays eyes on a huge black Labrador with an oddly long tongue and gorgeous blue eyes that distract him from a trickle of drool escaping through the side of the animal's open mouth. Kyle smiles at the dog because animals simply have that power over human beings, the power of gratuitous smiles, but soon it is held back by the sight of the important man, whose hair is as dark as the Labrador and his eyes are so blue and exotically dark as well. On one hand, the man was holding a chain firmly wrapped around his fist, and on the other, a cane made of copper and wood. Kyle does not move.

"Stan." He softly says, outlining a sort of restrained smile, almost embarrassed. You would have to look far to find the smile underneath that expression, but it is there.

(A detail that might be relevant in short: we are dealing with two people who deeply love each other. We are also dealing with two people who hardly talk to each other anymore.)

The cane hits the ground as the man takes a step forward, feeling the icy air in the room touching his pale skin, even the covered parts. His clothes are simple-minded; his pants are high-waisted and striped in black and brown, the jacket is royal blue and shredded, a very poor quality fabric, but enough to keep him warm, which is more than he can ask for now. Underneath, a brown linen vest. A red scarf around his neck. The dog shakes his ears, disinterested. Stan reaches out and bends his knees until his palm touches animal's thick fur, stroking the side of his body, giving him an affectionate pat before continuing walking, leading the way with his cane to make sure that he doesn't run into any object. The man in question, tall and slender, moves cautiously across the room - which is ridiculously long to make room for all the bookshelves that still preserve some organization - by following the sound of the voice that had uttered his name. There is no need to actually follow Kyle's voice, whereas Stanley already knows this room by heart. Kyle takes some time to get up from his chair, dropping the pen on the paper, leaving it to roll to the edge of the table; but it does not fall. For a moment, no one says a word. The only sound filling the space is the dog shaking his ears once more, getting rid of the rest of the water accumulated on his pelage. Kyle licks his lips, his hand caressing the table's thin wood that supports a part of his weight.

"I thought everyone had gone home." Kyle is the first one to speak. "Gregory said..."

"Yeah, I'm on my way out."

The redheaded man waits a few seconds - at least until the silence becomes uncomfortable - and clears his throat, crossing his arms. Stan makes no mention of explaining it; he just stands there, holding his faithful canine by the collar. Kyle's hip rests against the edge of the table. He rubs his exhausted face, the fingers lightly touch the scar tissue.

"Do you need something?"

Before we continue, it may be relevant to explain where these two men and this dog are: the building has four floors. It's not very intimidating from the outside. A brick building eroded by time, its windows are rounded and large, each has a small balcony for purely aesthetic reasons. On the roof of the building there is a chimney and a clock with Roman numerals, huge, in green and gold, which no longer works. It has not for decades. The construction comes from a time when Victorian architecture had been embellished; cities were reinvented. On the facade, you can read just above the door, in large golden letters, "AUTARKIC CHAMBER". Stan works on the first floor. Kyle works at the top.

They never meet.

"No." Stan replies, trying to sound casual. It does not work and he is aware of it. He tries to be more genuine, rubbing the back of his hand on the opposite wrist. "It is the twelfth."

If he could see, he would know that Kyle's face faded. It was an almost imperceptible twitch, his face shrinking into a painful grimace that soon dissolves into resignation, but most people wouldn't even notice. Stan isn't most people. Kyle lifts his chin almost without realizing it. Now that he's giving his back to the lamplight, his pupils dilate in the darkness.

"Yeah. Fourteen years today."

Unlike Stan, Kyle can see his livid face perfectly. His appearance is probably much healthier, the rounded cheeks of those who still have bread on their table, who found a way to live with the ghosts of that building. Resilience was one of the features that Kyle admires the most about Stan; he is absolutely certain that Stanley can survive whatever is placed before him. Maybe because a part of Stan still remains a conformist, like he was at the time they were living together. That doesn't seem important now, one way or another. Kyle rubs his eye, pulling out the chair to sit down again, losing his leg strength.

"Are you okay?"

The redhead diverts his face to the side, glancing at the man behind him for no more than one second. The question appears to tie a knot in his throat, such a rigid node that is almost physical, aching to the point where Kyle covers his neck with his hand, squinting. His silence is enough to make Stan understand. It's almost funny. If you allow me to take another break, I can make you understand a little better about the connection between these two souls. I've never met two people who loved one another as much as Kyle Broflovski and Stan Marsh, they changed the concept of love (for me, at least, but I think it was something that touched everyone around them). Whatever they had was unconditional. One can not remember a world in which the other did not exist, since it was something they established in diapers. There are things that Kyle himself must tell you, he can explain much better than I can about everything there was to bring these two men to this room at this moment, immersed in the silence of familiar acquiescence. There is too much hate involved, I can tell you, but it is common knowledge that the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Kyle and Stan will never be indifferent to one another. What I can tell you is that there was a third part involved. We'll get to another important man soon.

"I'm fine." It's all he says.

"People say it gets easier as time passes. But you already know that's a lie. Death never gets easier."

"What do you want here, Stan?"

The dog yawns, sitting patiently, scratching behind the fallen ear. His blue eyes are full of rheum, his nose is wet and he drools constantly, but regardless of all that, he is a beautiful dog. Egon is his name. Kyle watches them sideways, resisting the urge to reach out and cuddle Egon. He remains on his seat. Stan sighs deeply, uniting his feet, relieving the pressure on the collar between the fingers. He is anxious.

"I'm sorry. I just..." A pause. "I thought you wouldn't want to be alone today."

Kyle rubs his eyes as the sound of his own rudeness echoes inside his skull. It is one of the most unpleasant sounds possible, especially when it is directed to Stanley. You might not notice right away because he has become a bitter man, but in essence, Stan is still one of the kindest human beings to ever walk the face of the earth. There is something fascinating about him, as if he was unbreakable, no matter how many horrors he has seen and last throughout life, there is something in his soul that keeps him always flexible and foldable, for good or ill. He is a survivor. That's why he seems such an easy target, someone who's standing there waiting for the punch. And then Kyle, so passionate, let himself get carried away by the desire to punch him, but there wasn't even once that he didn't feel like a monster for it.

"Forgive me." He simply says, in a whisper that people ordinarily would not listen, but Stan's ears are not like the majority. He hears perfectly. "It was... It is hard. I just want this day to be over."

"Did you go to the cemetery?"

"Lord, no. Filling a grave with flowers for my own contentment seems increasingly meaningless now. It doesn't help anyone."

Stan leans on his cane and falls with the head slightly to the side, crossing his legs. His hair, which once were black as the night itself, but now looks washed-out, falls over his eyes. It doesn't bother him, though. Under the right light, you can see a sad little smile take over his mouth, but Kyle does not realize it.

"Do you still dream about him?"

"Almost every night."

'_He visits you_,' Stan thinks, '_so you don't have to visit him_.' But he didn't say a word about it, as usual, because it was not necessary.

Stan is a very perceptual man. He is right, I do visit Kyle in his dreams. I don't know if it makes it better or worse, but I miss him as much as he misses me.

The huge shadow of a zeppelin blocks the bright light of the moon that illuminates the room for a while. The darkness is comfortable to Kyle's eyes, it calms him somehow; that was one of the reasons why he had specifically asked to settle in the highest room on the top floor of the building. Fewer people transiting around there, a whole floor protected from the city lights that disturbed the retina. For Stan, of course, that kind of thing was not a problem. He lives in the dark.

It's funny, isn't it? The one who lives in the light searches for the darkness and the one who lives in the darkness longs for the light more than anything. It would be comical, if not tragic.

The zeppelin moves away. Large, imposing, red, brown and gold. Just a reminder that the city is still guarded by the Great Lords, the supreme symbol that they control up to the heavens, although things have been worse, truth be told. When the green light from the moon invades the living room with its undulating rays, Kyle's eyes are wet.

"I'm alright, Stan." He lies. And he is not fooling anyone, not even the dog. "Go home. It's getting late, you shouldn't take the train after midnight. Perhaps Gregory can accompany you."

He longs for the solitude, the dark and maybe a glass of wine. He doesn't want to drink too much, but there's still a bottle of Malbec Marchiori Vineyard stored in the kitchen cabinet, right behind the cans of beans, like it was hidden. This bottle came to his mind throughout the day. He pictured himself drinking on the balcony, watching the city from up above. Although he flirts with loneliness, the idea of going to an empty house, hearing the echo of the door opening, so extensive were the high walls of the entrance room, gave him chills. Kyle faces Stanley for long enough to commit the folly of imagining the words coming out of his mouth: '_Come with me_', he imagines himself asking, '_Your hands are always hot and I miss them so much. I really need your warm hands on my face today_.'

Clarity, however, didn't allow him to say such things.

He doesn't know what Stan thinks of him anymore, but he understands enough to be sure that it would be crazy to cogitate that this man will serve as a source of affection, after all that happened between them.

"I'm sorry, Kyle. I know it's not worth much, but I'm really sorry."

"I know you are. No one else has been there for me like you were when... When it happened. I don't want to seem ungrateful." There is hesitation in his voice, a groan contained in the throat. "God, how I miss him."

And that will never change.

Stan's face overflows a twinge of pain that comes from the guts. It doesn't last much, it's just a reflection of the pain in front of him. The demons that Stan bears are others.

"I'll leave you alone."

The dog lifts his head curiously, twitching his ears, bending his head to the side with the interest of a puppy. Kyle smiles. He catches the pen on the edge of the table, as if that would help him regain concentration, while Stan pulls Egon's collar to make him stand up again.

"Thank you." Kyle says, taking the back of his hand to his face, feeling how hot it is.

His cheeks are already wet by the traces of tears that flow naturally, so that he can barely feel them running down. The tears seem to have become part of his face in the last few years.

. . .

Kyle's home is away from town, located far up the mountain. It is a beautiful house, if you must know, an old building in Victorian architecture, with large windows that provided a beautiful view of pine trees. You can see the city lights from there, but they're like a mantle of stars. It's not a big house, even though it has three narrow floors and an attic with an extremely low ceiling, all made of wood, causing strange roars at night. Kyle is already accustomed to the sounds of nowhere, the wind blowing in the windows and the wildlife that rarely bothers him. The best part is the silence. The entire town of South Park, as well as any city in the United States today (except for the devastated areas) is captured by the constant sounds of mechanical sappers, trains going back and forth all night long, the crowded bars of bohemians who gained freedom to be there not many years ago. There are no more small towns, even with the reduced population. As one climbs the mountain, these sounds are falling behind, giving place to croak, howls, roars and other sounds that compose what is left of nature.

He climbs the three steps leading to his porch and puts his hand in the left pocket to get the key, which always insists on fleeing to the bottom. Suddenly, he hears a noise. Kyle turns to take a brief look around, not taking too seriously whatever his ears were warning him about. What bothers him is not exactly the noise itself, but the uncanny feeling that a pair of predator eyes is watching him. Kyle expects to see a white fox when he turns, but there is nothing. He frowns. He even forgets, at least for a moment, about all the weights he has carried on the shoulders today, because his mind is busy discarding absurd possibilities. Kyle hears footsteps, but the darkness does not allow him to see if it's real or only his imagination. Nobody uses to go up there and roam in the middle of the night in a mountain forest area while it's snowing, but Kyle can not deflect the impression that those steps are peculiarly human. And that brings an unpleasant sensation to the tip of his stomach.

There is a decent amount of people who are not fans of the work that Kyle, Stan, Gregory (you'll also get to meet Gregory soon, and believe me, you will never forget him) are doing. It is a delicate political moment, in which the effective change finally begin to deconstruct the sovereign elite. It seems that there is something - someone - big moving among the bushes, close to the wall of his house, in his property. Kyle rarely fears, but he turned out like a cat who is always with his eyes and ears open and carries an easily accessible pocketknife. Just in case. He now turns his body completely to face the woods, taking slow steps that make the wooden boards of the porch creak under his weight. The hand slides into the pocket, forgetting the key in the lock, tightening the handle of his Swiss Army knife between his fingers. His heart races a little faster, pumping blood to his brain, deregulating his intense breath that could be seen before his eyes because of the cold air. Kyle waits for a minute. The noise seems to have stopped completely.

A few more seconds, motionless. Nothing.

He drops the knife, leaving it untouched in his right pocket. He rubs his hot forehead and wonders if he's starting to go mad. It could happen.

Probably those hadn't even been steps, he knows that. Animals don't have the habit of getting so close, but it could even have been something as simple as a lost hunting dog looking for dinner in his trash cans. Kyle takes a breath and turns back to the door, ready to get in.

Until one foot - human, definitely human - steps on the first rung of the short stairs, then on the second, and it freezes Kyle for a moment. The only thing he has on hand is the front door key.

"Alms for a hungry man, monsieur?"

A hoarse voice is the snap to reality that makes Kyle ready to rip off an eye with that little bunch of keys if that's what he needs to do, his lips parted and his eyes wide open, not processing what had been said. He presses his back instinctively against the wooden door, seeing the dark figure approaching fast. Kyle clutches a fist using the hand that wears the onyx ring and throws a punch that is interrupted in the air by a rough hand holding his wrist as the large figure smacks the redhead's body against the door with strange grace in his movements. Kyle squints, expecting pain. A punch in the stomach, the blade of a knife, choking, any kind of pain. And the interesting part is how passive he is in the face of that idea, showing no reaction, no fighting back. If that's how he goes, then that's how he goes. Kyle has come in terms with the fact that would never die in peace, if such thing is even possible. But he feels nothing. The pain never comes. Then he realizes that his eyes are half-open and they reveal the face of a man, so close that he can actually feel his hot breath against his skin. A face as familiar as the back of his own hand. Kyle recognizes the man's scent before he even see his features.

The face that appears in the shadows belongs to the other important man.

Kyle sees him. The eye color of honey mix between green and brown, with an animalistic glare, the thick and irregular eyebrows which are as symmetrical as the face of rugged features, the protruding manly nose, the lower lip fuller than the upper, a small cut in the corner of his mouth, the square jaw, smooth messy hair covering the man's forehead and ears. This is the vision that Kyle has a few inches from his face, a dimly lit face that haunts him for years. Around his neck, a leather cord. Christophe DeLorne, a shadow.

Kyle takes both hands to the other's face in need to touch him before concluding that yes, he is real. From this conclusion, he collides his hands against the Christophe's chest, pushing him back a bit before moaning, mixing pain and relief, throwing himself into the Frenchman's arms right after as if moved by instinct. The embrace was also a necessity. It came tight, awkwardly twisted and confusing, as a substance of reality and dream. And the man receives him in his cold arms, resting his chin on the tangle of red curls, letting a smile - so rare are the smiles of Christophe - show through, illuminating his face.

"You're alive." Kyle murmurs against his bare chest. "You son of a bitch, you're alive."

The Mole wears a green moss coat, red plaid inside, open and revealing the trunk of a guerrilla, stiff and sculptural. His body looks stronger, though his face looks more aged. The thick belt attached to the hip holds an arsenal of potentially lethal weapons, well hidden in secret compartments. The pants and combat boots that go all the way to his knees are the same color, a brown so dark that borders on black. In the dim of the porch, there is no difference. Christophe isn't smiling anymore when Kyle looks up and let go of him.

"We haven't gotten a letter from you in nearly two years ago. We thought..." Kyle begins to explain, the words coming out disorderly, his hands still clutching the other man's arms. "What are you doing here?"

Christophe shrugs.

"It's ze twelfth."

For a moment, Kyle just stares. The sound of that voice that rarely comes so bland is a homeopathic dose of anesthetic. He can't help but giving out a sad smile.

"My goodness, Christophe. Were you in France all this time? Why the fuck didn't you write?"

He shakes his head.

"Non, I've been in Monaco. Belgium. Italy. Zings aren't pretty anywhere, I'll tell you. Now, I waited for three hours in zis fucking cold, be a good boy and invite me in." He says in his best seductive voice, which is surprisingly functional, perhaps because of the European blood flowing in his veins. You could even call him a charming man, if you wanted to. He raises a hand to touch Kyle's hair, but the redhead timidly lowers his face in response, biting his lower lip. "I'll tell you everyzing if you let me eat somezing."

"You could have called me, you didn't have to wait out here. Jesus Christ."

"And what fun would zat be?"

Oh, the charming boor smile on his face as he asks. Christophe is a filthy cranky bastard, but when he smiles, I understand why Kyle went through so much shit for him. We'll get to that later.

"I could have cut your jugular, you asshole. Your little joke nearly gave me a heart attack."

Christophe laughs.

"Why would it ever cross my mind zat you may need protection?"

Kyle tries to roll his eyes, but the smile is contagious and it takes over before he can realize it. He rubs his gloved hands and spend a few more seconds staring at the Frenchman, as if his image only now became clear. At this moment, Christophe tries to touch the scar on Kyle's face, but the response is skittish; he turns his face and makes a nod for them to go inside the house. He asks about the small apartment that the Mole had rented in the city, on top of a self-service laundry, where he had left most of his stuff before he went away. Christophe explains that the landlady, a fat old woman who could have a worse temper than his own, put all his shit in storage (not that he had anything of worth) and he is currently a homeless man. And the door closes behind them.

The constant in which Kyle's life had remained to this point is turned upside down from that night on. But you have no obligation to know why. You were not there, after all, on May 12th, 3646. The day I was murdered. You were not there at the night of the bomb, when Stan Marsh lost his sight. You were not there when Christophe and Kyle met, or when the ideas of revolution were sown on the blood of the students, you were not there when Gregory got on the table and shouted freedom in the basement of his father's coffee shot. You were not there when Christophe raised the red flag for the very first time, symbolizing the students union, their goal, their belief, on the same day that he was shot in the stomach and one student was trampled to death. You were not there when they all resisted. When the relationship between Stan and Kyle began to collapse, something that started with a drubbing in the cafeteria of the university and ended with a bottle of rum. You weren't there.

But you will be. Let me take you.


	2. The Strong

February 02, 3644

It rained all morning nonstop. Rare were the days when it didn't rain in that town. Now, the storm had been reduced to small and random drops that fell insistently on our foreheads and scalps, only to remind us that the rain would never come to an end. The sky was constantly covered by a thick, dark layer of pollution, hiding the clouds responsible for the strictly ugly weather. The cobblestones were wet and so was the brick wall behind me, which supported my weight. I could also feel the uncomfortable humidity inside my shoes that already had five years of daily use and the poor soles were falling off. I couldn't complain, it was all I had. I was lucky that my feet hadn't grown too much since I was a teenager. It would be time to retire them if I had money to spend on luxuries like new shoes. Almost no one had that kind of luxury, especially in towns like South Park.

But I wasn't thinking about shoes, not at that moment. My eyes gleamed, staring at the iron sappers who passed by the alley in an endless line. They didn't see us, since they never took time to look to the sides. Maybe that was our luck smiling at us. By then we were used to it: we already knew the sappers' route and how long it would take them to finish it, because their function was not merely to supervise the behavior on the streets (as they tried to make it seem); it was more of a psychological terrorist move that led us to hiding inside over fear of what might happen if we got caught on the street after curfew. Anyway, the sappers were very focused on their task to sweep the marginals off the main avenue and nothing could distract them. The sappers were mostly young androids, strong and full-bodied lawmen. In a radius of 200 miles around us, everyone could hear the marching of combat boots on the wet concrete and all of those who heard them would tremble a little on the inside.

Or maybe not all of them. Stan certainly didn't even seem to hear the unbearable echo of those boots. He had his face pressed against my neck, devouring it with the desperation of a starving man, holding my body in his arms and running his hands down my back, hard on each finger, burying them in my flesh covered by clothing. His nose was cold, but would soon be warm in my skin that was wet from the chin down to the neck. His mouth, on the contrary, seemed to be the hottest thing that ever was.

The marching stopped along with what seemed to be the sound of more than one hundred and fifty left feet crashing to the ground, making it tremble under our own feet. There was something stunning and wonderful in that sound. Stan always talked about what he thought to be a morbid fascination on my part as to the inspection of the streets. Stan didn't seem to worry, not then and not at any other time, about the things he could not control. He told me that all the time. But while his mouth slid across my skin, his thick tongue, his wet and full lips playing around my exposed neck, I could not take my mind away from what had happened the day before. Three History students had gone missing.

"It's so sad." I murmured softly, almost without realizing that the words had actually come out of my mouth, and more than that, they came out tangled in a weak moan that resulted in a sick mixture of lust by Stan's warm body next to mine and the whirlwind of thoughts, both raising the adrenaline inside of me.

Stan pressed me against the bricks, fitting his thigh between my legs, running his hand down my back to pass it under the hem of my shirt. He distractedly moaned a "huh?" without really paying attention to what I had said, sucking on my skin in the way he knew it would leave me breathless. To be honest, I breathed like a puppy every time he did that. I slipped my hands over his chest, enjoying the rough texture of the vest he wore.

"Have you heard about the students?" I asked breathlessly, wrapping one arm around his neck and taking my hand through his thick dark hair, always so soft. This eventually made Stan lift his head, sliding his lips over my jaw to meet my mouth, kissing me noisily. I held the back of his head firmly, pressing my back against the hard cold bricks.

When our lips parted, Stan looked at me closely with those dark blue eyes that were sweeter than those of an animal or a child. He smirked kindly, covering my cold cheek with his palm.

"Stop thinking about it."

"How?"

He didn't know how, but he did know that any proposed solution would be useless to me. So he simply replied with an affectionate peck, caressing the skin of my cheek with his thumb. His breath was delicious and comforting. The cold was finally starting to give in to a more mild and gentle weather, although there wasn't such a thing as _nice weather _in South Park. It was almost 10:15 am. Stan glanced at his watch and made a sign that indicated we had to return to the classroom, though his arms were still around me and didn't show any intention of letting me go. We didn't have to go through the main avenue, which was taken over by the soldiers, to return to class. We had already learned an alternative path through the alley leading to a narrow lane, very well hidden. One would have to jump over a high fence in order to go through that way, but we had developed this habit by performing it almost every single day. Maybe we would still have time to eat if we left soon.

It never failed to surprise me how fearless Stan was about these things. Anyone who looked at it from the outside would guess the opposite because I was always the first to open my mouth at any opportunity to fight, ever since we were kids. But I always had so much fear. Fear of the consequences of rebellion, as my mother taught me to have. Stan dealt with breaking the rules – from the smallest to the largest - with more tranquility, as if he always had an undeniable certainty of what was right and wrong. So he saw no problem in gray lines between black and white. And in the world we lived in, his flexibility was so necessary to me. Stan had no idea how safe he made me feel. I don't know how I can begin to describe Stan Marsh. When I talk about his sweetness, maybe people immediately think of fragility and delicacy. Stan was a bulky man with excess of hair, a sort of beard showing in his young face, the eyes of a child, very white teeth and he knew how to give such a warm and tight hug, warmer than anyone in the world could ever give. He had been in my life since I could remember, playing the silent role of a brass armor hero, without any claim to be a true hero, but that's what he was, above all. At least to me. And I fell in love with him as a child, mad and uncontrollably in love. We had been truly together for only three years. It was with Stan that I discovered love, jealousy, sex, what it was to give myself to another human being in a full, pure and free way.

I believe that some historical orientation is necessary. The setting was a university built in the building of an old abandoned opera. The building was over 500 years old, but the huge hall only once had to be restored during this half century. All the decoration was preserved, only equipping classrooms, demolishing walls that divided the small booths between dressing rooms, offices and stocks to make them larger and habitable rooms. The old stage was used as an auditorium. Every morning, afternoons and nights we swore loyalty to the president and the nation before the beginning of each school day. The teaching is public, but the degree is not worth much in our condition and people like us don't choose their graduation.

I'm not sure how we got here. We study our country's History in a very biased way, highlighting the most dubious figures, concealing or distorting facts. But there are things that I had experienced, that no one had to tell me through books - and much of it was censored anyway. I was there in 3634, when there was still an idea of democracy and the people elected the president who would decree absolute power of the Army above the Constitution. On that year, democracy was abolished, a cue that came with the purpose of taking the country off a severe economic crisis, but the Institutional Act only took place five years later, on November 02, 3639. I was a teenager by then and already had a broader understanding of what was happening. The dictatorial president was discarded, beginning a new era: the supreme leader who exalts the lost patriotism of Americans decrees that the dictatorship would serve as a "cleaning", as it was guaranteed that the faithful Americans would be protected from the crisis. How easy it is to lead a nation through flattery. The good old American spirit. Right after, the deportations began. At 3640, the genocide by starvation against Latinos on American soil was deployed. Europeans continued to be tolerated by different political agreement. Student movements were shut down, teachers started to disappear, knowledge was retained and loyalty to the party must be absolute. Public education was a way to keep young people under control, passing what is interesting for the mass. Foreigners were not well regarded. 3642 was probably the worst year, when the war between the United States and Canada broke out, a consisting conflict since we were kids. Teachers and students began to disappear from the university, the guerrillas began to form, people were tortured. My mother was an active militant in the war, representative of the party in South Park, passionate advocate of American pride. My (adoptive) brother was Canadian.

The cafeteria was always full, even with the declining number of students in the last year; many people left South Park or chose to leave school and join a manual job that provided for most of the families. Eric Cartman always got a table for us, even if it was through not very orthodox methods, so to speak. None of us agreed, but we also didn't disagree hardly enough to refuse to sit with him. That day, he ate a skinless chicken leg and, from time to time, he quietly handed it over to Kenny so he could take a bite, always so full of pleasure that was delightful to watch. I tried to give him the apple I brought with me, but he graciously declined it with a nod, smiling honestly in that way only Kenny could; no matter the amount of horrors he had seen or been through, that smile was still there. Stan and I had been friends of those two young men ever since I could remember. I never quite understood why. It took only one good look around that table to understand the distinctions between the four of us. Sitting in front of me, there was another man: Gregory, who rolled up the sleeves of his red blazer, also pulling the white sweater she wore underneath. His eyes sparkled, focused on the things he said to me specifically because the other three were entertained in a low discussion about centipedes and how many legs they really have.

"It's revolting. Simply revolting. It literally makes me want to vomit." He told me, sinking his spoon into his green jelly once again. His British accent was mild because he'd lived in the US since childhood, but he had never completely lost that European intonation. "Do you know how many people have disappeared so far only this year? Twenty four. In two months, Kyle."

I joined both hands in front of my face and let out a heavy sigh, rubbing my temples with my thumbs. I felt Stan's hand on my leg, although he hadn't turned his face away from Kenny, who seemed to be developing an important theory, gesturing with his hands, stopping only when Cartman hit the table with his heavy hand, telling him to listen. Eric Cartman had this sublime rudeness and he knew how to wear it with extraordinary elegance. Kenny scratched his poorly shaved jaw, turning his gaze to Gregory.

"You fags need to learn how to speak more quietly." Cartman interrupted. "If you take an electric shock in the neck, don't expect me to defend you."

No one would expect that from you. - I answered immediately, angry.

"Hey." Kenny said, shaking his head like a dog and stroking the golden hair back, but receiving no attention. "Guys."

Cartman dropped the chicken leg on the plate and wiped his hand on a napkin, still chewing a remnant that was left between the teeth, already pointing the finger at me, leaning his elbow on the wobbly table, shaking the cutlery on the surface. Kenny discretely stole the chicken.

"I don't want to be associated with retarded people who don't know the time and the place to talk about shit." Cartman continued, whispering loudly.

"You can't be serious, Cartman."

"Guys." Kenny called again, with bulky cheeks, still chewing.

Gregory turned to face the direction Kenny was looking at.

"How do you think those idiots got caught, Kyle? Those are the people who talk too much, it's past time for you to learn it."

"My God, look at the shit you're saying."

"All right, if you want to play Jesus, climb on the table and start to rebel. Is that a Jew complex of some kind?"

"Shut your mouth, you fat moron."

The others at the table were no longer paying attention to our ordinary discussion. Eric and I only turned in the direction that they faced when the sound of a commotion was high enough. A path was open among the students who had no where to sit and the familiar sound of the step of combat boots froze my blood stream for a few seconds. It wasn't the Iron Sappers - they never entered the university, nor had the authority to do so - but two military guards who crossed the cafeteria, escorting (or dragging) a student. Our discussion ceased almost immediately.

"Bloody hell." Gregory murmured, covering his mouth with his hand, his eyes widening. "Christophe."

The name wasn't familiar. Stan frowned, turning his face towards me for a moment, apprehensive. He was probably anticipating how hard the scene would be to watch, especially for someone who had a hard time shutting up. Someone like me. Kenny was still holding the chicken thigh, now almost meatless, his lips smeared by fat. He licked his upper lip and asked quietly,his voice sounding very tense:

"Was he an inmate?"

"You know him?" I asked Gregory right away.

But Gregory did not answer me right away. I could almost hear his heart pounding in his chest, grief overflowing his blue eyes. There was a long moment of silence.

"Yeah..." He finally said, sounding distracted. Christophe crossed gazes with Gregory from afar, but his expression did not change. "He..."

There was no time to explain anything; the man in question, Christophe, aggressively said something in French to the guard, just before crashing his elbow against the man's nose as the guard tried to hold him by the arm. Blood spilled. It was both terrifying and delicious, remembering that the lawmen also bleed like the rest of us. Things got worse very quickly after that.

Christophe DeLorne came into my life aggressively and unexpectedly, like everything he did, breaking down any - false - structure of peace. Order was never his thing, truth be told, I can not imagine meeting him any other way that didn't involve a broken table and the punch that ripped the man in white's tooth as he tried to hold Christophe down. This was the first time I saw him really, already with a purple and swollen eye to the point of not being able to open it, his lip bleeding due to an open cut when he had been thrown to the floor. The blood ran down his chin, staining his teeth deep red. There were two men on him, one to hold, the other one to hit. But he failed miserably in the task of cowardly beating up an unarmed young and outnumbered man. I was quickly taken from a feeling of deep indignation to stunned fascination, mesmerized by the animalistic fury with which Christophe refused to fall, did not matter how many punches he took. After so many years being taught to live in fear, so used to seeing every citizen who enjoys mental health falling to the ground with ease and submission, it was so easy to forget that we were being cowards. And to see this strange man fighting like a wolf for the mere dignity of standing up disturbed me so much, as if Christophe's disgrace and courage reflected my own submission.

I got up instinctively, telling myself that I was still drunk with the rage that injustice caused, but the ugly truth is that I just wanted him to stop resisting. I wanted him to be like all of us. But he was not. He still stood like a bull, knocking the man in white with his elbow, breaking his nose with a treat of smile on his face.

He enjoyed to see the military men bleeding, I knew that much. He made no effort to contain that satisfaction, not even for his life. Delighted with every punch, licking his upper lip that was now bloodier than before, finally being thrown on his back, grunting.

"Stanley!" Cartman called, as amended. "Contain your woman!"

Not that Stan would react to something like this, he never had the tendency to control any reckless choice that I made. But if he had tried, for my own protection, I didn't give him the time to do anything. I just jumped off the bench and walked around the table, before Stan and Kenny could even react - although they both called my name at the same time - but once I got to the other side, it was Eric Cartman who rose to wrap an arm around my waist and pull me roughly against his body, holding me so tight I could barely struggle.

"Let me go, you asshole!" I spit angrily, scratching his arm. But Cartman was too big of a man, too strong, too stubborn for me to do anything. It was eating me alive, that brutal silence among so many young people who understand oppression very well, on a deep personal level, and still we were able to passively watch such a scene.

"I won't let you kill yourself, you pussy." He replied impatiently. "Not for a random asshole."

Only then I realized that my feet no longer touched the ground. I turned my torso in Gregory's direction. He stared at the floor in silence, his body slightly turned to the side, one arm resting on the table.

"Do you have no shame?" I asked him. "You _know_ him. Look at the shit they're doing to him! How can you accept that?"

When Cartman was convinced that I wouldn't impulsively run anymore- facingthe knowledge that there was nothing I could do alone - he let me go. There were so many things falling apart in my mind that I didn't realize the intimacy of that moment, as Eric was, after all, a childhood friend who cared about me. It would take many more dramatic situations for me to realize that.

Gregory's eyes met mine, looking heavy.

"He your friend." I said bitterly.

"That's the reason why I will not make things worse for him. He's the one who would be punished for our rebellion act." Gregory replied calmly, trying to contain the tension in his voice. I could hardly breathe. None of us looked directly at the scene unfolding in the distance, but I could still hear Christophe grunting in pain as they beat the fuck out of him. "Please, sit down."

I did not sit down. I rolled my lips inside my mouth, swallowing the reflux rising through my esophagus, burning in my gut. I shook my head obtrusively, turning to find Stan's comforting sight. He looked worried, staring at me with thick eyebrows somewhat united, full of compassion, asking with his hands that I went back to sit next to him. I ignored that request, returning my attention to the military men in white. Someone stepped on the scene, two teachers from the masters ward, with integrity to discuss the freedom of action that the guards had with students. That was no relief because Christophe was still on the ground bordering on unconsciousness and coughing up blood. The guards handcuffed him and collected him from the floor like a rag, forcing him to walk straight to continue the way they were heading before the commotion. Step by step, they approached our table. Christophe raised his chin slightly, revealing his sharp eyes behind the messy hair. His gaze met mine. It was the first time he saw me standing there, staring at him with regret in my face and a terrible taste of impotence in my mouth. Our eyes met for no more than five seconds, which stretched for hours as I tried in vain to sympathize with what had become of him. Up close, I could see traces of that bruised face that were so exotic and aggressive as he was, chaotic brown hair that appeared to have been cut with a razor, straight nose and protruding lower lip, full of bruises, a cord hanging around his neck which could not identify at the time. It was a man who was beautiful and ugly at the same time, because what he emanated was so intense that it burned like a raw wound. But that look scared me. And I was the one who ended up breaking eye contact, turning my eyes to the ground, intimidated, a little embarrassed. Because that look was as violent as his attitudes, as if it had entered my soul without permission, invading everything I thought and felt at that moment. The students were returning to eat and talk quietly.

And so they left. And I went back to sit between Stan and Kenny. No one wanted to eat the chicken thigh, the apple or the green jelly. We spent a long time in silence. Cartman didn't sit down again. I felt Stan's gentle hand behind my back, causing me to close my eyes at his touch, like a cat when petted.

"Who is this asshole anyway?" Cartman asked, annoyed by the whole thing, putting a hand on his hip and rubbing his chin with the other one. "He asked to die. He totally deserved the beating he got."

"Shut up, Cartman." Kenny answered for me, saying exactly what I would have said. I smiled a little bit.

Gregory remained serious, his mouth in a straight line, his eyes completely lifeless. He took a deep breath, taking his trembling hand to his forehead, rubbing it, searching for the right words to explain it.

"Christophe killed someone." He said simply. "I didn't know when he would be released. I didn't think he was interested in studying, or even… Even coming to America. This is all very strange."

"He killed someone?" Stan asked, genuinely surprised.

I didn't know why, but that information didn't shock me at all. I didn't know Christophe DeLorne at that time, I knew nothing about him, but those five seconds that I had to lock my eyes into his, as well as the whole body language and his inconsequential persistence, almost stupid, so passionate... It troubled me and interested me as much as the march of the Iron Sappers. Maybe Stan was right. Perhaps morbid fascination was one of my faults. Christophe had become a morbid fascination to me.

. . .

**A/N: **Hi. Okay, so. It took me a loooooong time to figure out where I wanted to go with this story. I'm very passionate about it and, even if it takes me forever, I'm not letting it go. I hope this is at least readable, I guess! Thank you so much for getting here. I want to thank my beautiful Black Nidstang for always encouraging me to write this crap and for listening to my nonsense. I wouldn't be posting this if it weren't for her.


	3. The Ghost

May 12, 3660

Christophe picks up the bowl of soup with both hands and sips it in this noisy way, not using any silverware, dropping it on the table in his rude manner right after, also tearing apart a piece of bread like a beggar who hasn't seen food in weeks, sucking on his moist fingers that are full of crumbs, smearing his lips and chin. He doesn't care to dry his beard. Kyle watches him with his arms crossed, leaning against the refrigerator. Although the Mole hasn't had a decent meal for months, somehow he remains robust; he doesn't have the appearance of a sick person. Kyle wants to ask how that can be possible. He also wants to know where he has been and in which conditions he lived in the last few years, but he won't bombard him with questions tonight. They are already in silence for ten minutes when Christophe finishes eating, letting out a satisfied groan. He finally cleans his mouth, at least kind of, using nothing but his bare hands, looking up at Kyle with his dilated pupils. There's a sweet expression on her face, like a boy. That's unusual.

"How's Stan?"

Kyle holds the eye contact for a moment, but then turns around to start washing the dishes that have piled up in the sink. It's actually an attempt to scape from Christophe's serene look. There is no judgment in the way these hazel eyes are observing Kyle, but I believe that is precisely what hurts the most. He turns the tap on and rolls up his sleeves, separating the plates from the silverware in small piles, rubbing his wet nose with his wrist.

"I wouldn't know."

"But did he..." Christophe says, but he holds the words back, taking the bowls with his hands once again, getting up from the chair. He pats the wooden surface, removing the crumbs left on the tablecloth, throwing them on the floor. "Did he have the surgery?"

He approaches the sink, making the hair on Kyle's neck stand up with the warmth of his body. They don't get to touch, but the Mole comes awfully close to him in order to leave the dirty bowl on the marble sink, letting his breath hit against Kyle's ear, hot and intense. Christophe stares at the nape of Kyle's neck for a moment and closes his fist tightly, wanting so badly to touch him there. But he won't. He knows Kyle would pull away if he tried, and he's right to think so. Suddenly, Christophe himself pulls away. Kyle takes a deep breath, scrubbing harder the plate he's washing.

"He did. But..."

His silence is enough to fill the uncomfortable void in Christophe's mind; the void he saves for a twinge of hope, something he's not used to feel. He dislikes being hopeful precisely because of moments like this, where reality is no longer covered by the blessing of ignorance.

The Frenchman rubs his face with his hand that isn't spread on the counter, supporting his weight. He stares at Kyle slightly aside. The sound of running water and Kyle rubbing porcelain with a sponge is the only thing that can be heard during long time.

"_Merde_." The Mole mumbles softly.

"Well, he knew that the chances were very small. At least here in South Park." Kyle justifies, forcing a baseless calmness in his voice as if saying this doesn't hurt. Christophe remains silent, staring at the kitchen's hard wooden floor, not really absorbing what he's listening right now. Kyle turns the tap off, taking a wet hand to his arm. "Stop it."

Christophe only stares back with the same blank face. His eyes shine more greenish than brown, at least under this soft light. That was actually a theory that Kyle has developed over the years about the Mole's eyes. He seems to think that the dubious color of his iris changes according to the light, but also his mood. Odd, isn't? I think I let myself believe it because his eyes really do look greener when he has this look on his face, full of compassion, full of pain. And when he is pissed off, really out of his mind, his eyes darken in a way that there's barely any reminisce of green left. Kyle never came to share this theory with Christophe, I believe that's because he doesn't want to give away the secrets he uses to unravel this exotic creature that is The Mole.

"You saved his life, Christophe." Kyle continues, angrier this time, pressing his shaky fingers around his arm's muscles.

But the Mole retreats sharply.

"I also put him there."

"You didn't force him to do anything. We were all together, we all had our losses."

Let me explain; They are referring to an episode that took place many years ago and I will not be the one to narrate said episode, but I can give some glimpses of what's to come. I think that won't hurt anybody. As you already know, Stan Marsh lost his sight. And the human kind has the terrible habit of reliving the past repeatedly to seek, in the bowels of events, the reason why such a thing happened and how it could have been different. It's a tremendous nonsense, you realize that when you die and detach from the flesh, but I can not judge them for trying to find a meaning in their misfortune. It's just curious to me how we never try to try to find meaning in joy, happiness, as they are self-explanatory. But so is disgrace. What happened to Stan Marsh was a disgrace that could not have been foreseen by anyone, but a series of attitudes imply guilt on the two men standing in this very kitchen. For quite different reasons, it is noteworthy.

There was a time when the Mole didn't know how to shut up. He would have punched the marble counter and spewed his opinions on Kyle's face, it was the only way he knew to express himself. Through violence. The man standing in front of Kyle today is quite different. He's still not very good with words, truth be told, he still speaks more with his eyes and body than proper verbal language. But he's choosing to simply stare at Kyle with a melancholy serenity, like a brick wall that does not react to the punches it takes. A strange silence settles on the lack of argument because Christophe retires this discussion looking away to beige tiles on the wall. There is this image printed on the tiles, like this old drawing of a house and a child in blue, centered in every few tiles. The drawing holds his attention for a few seconds.

"Do you want to take a shower?" Kyle asks sounding slightly impatient, bothered by the absence of noise.

"You still have hot water? I don't want to waste."

Kyle responds using only his eyebrows, something he's always done and I always thought it was hilarious. He raises his eyebrows so naturally, but the resulting expression always gives you the sensation that you just said that pigs fly or something. There is such an intrinsic arrogance to it, which is at once so careful, so kind. He dismisses Christophe's comment with a nod, his hand still wet, the sleeve still folded up to the middle of his arm.

"I'll get you a towel."

Christophe takes his time in the shower. He just stands here enjoying the feeling of hot water against his skin for a long time, you can imagine. He didn't tell Kyle what conditions he lived in the years he was out of the country and how such conditions have worsened in the past few months. They don't call him the Mole for nothing, you know? He likes to live under the earth, literally, in addition to his passion for digging holes as I've never seen in a human being. It is almost a fetish, if you ask me. He spent the last two years changing location every two months, but the places he rented were always very well hidden – basements of clandestine shops, storage houses, but never apartments. He liked being close to the ground if he needed run for any reason. He was also used to not having running water or heating, or sometimes electricity. He learned how to work with what he had, which implies in deciding to forget about dispensable comforts such as bathing. The majority of the world population does not have that kind of luxury, anyway (water, hot meals, a good bed, a roof over their heads). To be honest, Christophe doesn't have a roof over his head either.

Kyle reminds him of that.

When he comes out of the shower and put on the last pair of pants he brought, Christophe comes down the stairs to find a freshly washed sheet and a pillow on the sofa. Ah, the touch of squeaky clean sheet. I miss that about being alive. Christophe also misses it and enjoys every second of feeling the soft touch with his fingers lightly wrinkled by the bath, opening a distant smile, sitting on the couch with dripping hair over his bare chest. He sighs, exhausted, which is more than understandable. Men like the Mole no longer know what it is to be truly safe, as they recognize that there is no place where the military can not find them. He is a clandestine still surviving in militancy, unlike his former guerrilla fellow who joined the opposition party and now have the chance to live normal lives as politicians. Christophe's never wanted this. I can even see something romantic about this idea of freedom, but it is very easy for me to say. He lives this way precisely because he's still a prisoner.

It's a tough mind to understand, this man's. There was a time when he was different. I didn't actually know him at that time, but in my condition, you perceive time as something non-linear, simultaneous, then at some point in history I can see the time when Christophe had this bastard's smile that shone with an impressive ease.

Soon, Kyle appears in the room. He is barefoot, wearing a white shirt that goes to the mid-thigh. He rubs his eyes as a little boy who asks for his teddy bear before bedtime. He's all ready to sleep, with the exception of the reading glasses of thick black rod that he's put on to check the messages on his computer. His face remains serious as he approaches, as a prelude to the sentence that comes out of his mouth:

"I think we need to talk."

Christophe does not like that sentence because nothing good ever comes after it. But he just stares at Kyle like his stomach hasn't just lurch inside out all of the sudden, waiting for whatever it was about to be dug up between them. The amount of corpses between these two men is not small, you be sure of that. I have to admire this guy Christophe, because he is such a strong son of a bitch for remaining so sane when Kyle sits beside him on the couch, very close to him. Inside, I know he's completely fucked. It's so obvious on his face, under the rude expression lines, however cold and hard they show. He's changed and it scares Kyle.

"I'm really glad you're here. You have no idea." Kyle tells him with this nervous and inevitable laugh, adjusting his glasses sliding down his Hebrew nose. "But I need to know what your plans are. Will you stay in South Park?"

The Mole bites on his lower lip, wrinkling it a little while thinking about. It is not the first time he has to face this grotesque question, of course, but it seems different now that Kyle is asking it. The whole thing seemed far less intimidating inside his head. A few years ago, he got used to going to bed without knowing exactly where he would be the next day, even if he would have somewhere to sleep. He couldn't make any plans, giving the fact that there was no stability in his life, if he could still remember the meaning of "stability." Such things didn't seem important until now. Then he shrugs.

"Haven't thought about it yet." He finally responds in a whisper filled with his accent, even though this isn't an entirely honest answer.

"I just... I'm not so sure it's a good idea for you to stay here."

These words burn in Kyle's throat, but at the same time, they offer a strange relief of some sort. Those restless thoughts had been troubling him since the moment the bliss of seeing Christophe again diluted a little. It came from months and months of building an expectation of his return, however utopian it seemed to be. To understand Kyle's agony, you would need to know the circumstances of the Mole's departure. I'll give you a hint: that shit wasn't pretty. There was nothing, nothing pretty about it. The fact that these two men are sitting together, still talking with such unconditional affection and a violent dose of nostalgia, is a very clear demonstration that time heals all things. They haven't touched this wound to find out to which extent it's really cured, but there are bigger things between them, stronger things.

When Christophe DeLorne left, Kyle was sure that wouldn't come back ever again and, more than that, he was sure that this was for the best, that he wouldn't even want to see the Mole ever again. But it is important to clarify that this was not Christophe's fault, at least not in Kyle's eyes.

The whole thing happened fourteen years ago, not long after my death. Christophe took a train to the airport, carrying a small wooden case with a few important belongings and a few changes of clothes, completely alone. The day was ridiculously cold, freezing his bloodied face. It was the first day that the Mole cried after how many years of keeping the ugliest things inside himself; It is hard to believe, because on those three years that he had been living in South Park, he was arrested more than once, lost a significant number of guerrilla fellows, he'd seen the face of death and escaped by barely nothing. He didn't know if his family was alive or dead, watching from far away the chaos in his home country – where he return to that night - but none of this was enough to make this man cry. What made Christophe cower like a fetus in a train seat (next to an elderly black man who held a musical instrument in its case) was the raw vulnerability of loving another human being.

I could spend a hundred pages talking about the moment when Christophe covered his face and writhed in pain on that tight train seat, letting out through his eyes the huge demon that had been eating him alive for months. It was a loud cry, but contained nevertheless, so desperate and breathless, painful to watch. But we need to move on. We will return moment in the future. Kyle wasn't there, so I'll have to tell you about it myself eventually.

"You know what I'm talking about." Kyle continues, uncomfortable with the other man's terribly steady gaze on him, since it's the only response so far. "You could have gone to Gregory. However, here you are."

"I already told you, I came because today is the twelfth. I came for you."

"Yes, but last year there was also the May 12 and you haven't even made the effort of letting me know you were alive. What's changed?"

Christophe raises his hand in protest with his forefinger and thumb pressed together as if he were Italian. This detail is very subtle, but it reminds me of the only time he lifted his finger on Kyle's face. Needless to explain that such finger was almost broken at that time. This was a mistake that the Mole never committed again.

"I wasn't in Europe on vacation, Kyle."

Kyle has an immediate impulse, opening his mouth to answer, but then holds the words in his throat for a moment and lets the air escape through his nostrils with impatience, laying his head to the side. He takes off his glasses in an almost dramatic gesture, rubbing his temples with his free hand.

"I know that. I'm not trying to make you feel guilty."

There is a long silence when the purpose of that conversation dissipates in thin air and the two plunge into the realization of what distance and time may have done to them. Christophe finally lowers his eyes, after taking a long good look at Kyle's scar, absorbing every little change on that face that used to be his favorite in the whole wild world. As a young man, Kyle used to have that natural flushed complexion that only youth and dreams provide. Now he looks so tired. There is something very rough about him, something harsh that has always been there and it was Kyle's strength during all the years of darkness they had to face, still at a very young age.

Kyle drops the glasses on his lap and rubs his face.

"You did what you had to do and so did I." He says. "I'm not blaming you for it."

"So what the fuck is the problem?"

"You know what the problem is, don't play dumb."

Christophe relaxes the brow and face with the honesty of those who genuinely have no idea, especially since Kyle looks like a wall facing him back. The Frenchman stretches his muscular arm to support it on top of the back pillows and leans against them, taking a deep breath. He takes a moment to talk again.

"You don't want me here?"

The question seems to dismantle Kyle a little more than he was expecting. He takes his long fingers to cover his eyes in agitated manner, transpiring the stress this discussion is causing. He doesn't mean to complain. He doesn't mean to give too much attention to things that should not matter in the big picture, but those small things are strong enough to freeze him now. The memories make his head throb in pain every time they occur to his mind.

"It was hard, Christophe. When you left, it was so fucking hard to stay here. But I got used to it, I just don't want this to wean me from..."

_I do__n't__ want __this__ to wean me __from living__ without you_, it's what he wants to say. The words don't come out, Kyle just shrugs and shakes his slightly crooked head, retreating like an animal when Christophe reads between the lines and approaches him slowly, sliding closer to Kyle on the couch, involving his withdrawn body to pull him against his wet bare chest, embracing Kyle with unusual delicacy, resting his chin on top of the red head. There was a time when it was the opposite: Kyle wasn't afraid to demonstrate fragility, while this was the Mole's greatest fear.

But things have changed.

They still have no idea how much.

May 13, 3660

The next morning, Kyle wakes up early to make coffee and set the table. It's something he loves to do, but there's never company for breakfast. He no longer has one set of china, only different colors and various sizes of plates and cups that have survived over the years, ever since he bought the house. Kyle serves cashew juice, yogurt and make an omelette. There isn't much in the fridge, he needs to buy groceries. But Christophe doesn't even sit down for breakfast, he just eats a mango while standing up, leaning against the counter. They share a moment when Christophe's beard is smeared in mango juice and Kyle lets out the first laugh since he returned, commenting how he's worse than Tarzan. Which is pretty funny. The kitchen is very quiet for the rest of the time.

They also don't have a lot of time to talk before leaving for the Chamber. In the car, Christophe reclines the seat back and puts one foot on the panel, the filthy boot dirtying the surface and Kyle only sends him a reproof look. There's a spark in those green eyes that feels so familiar to Christophe he's almost relieved to see it again. The Mole gently pulls back his leg and snorts. Kyle silently thanks him in a "good boy" tone.

Now let's talk about another figure.

Gregory is an interesting man. I never liked him much in life, to be honest, especially because I didn't quite understand why the bastard is the way that he is. Looking from the outside, I won't blame you for thinking that he's just a spoiled brat (well, today he's a man, but at the time I was alive and met him, he was no more than a brat; we all were), one of those rich boys who like to play revolution with his poor little friends. But I was wrong at the time. Can anyone blame me? The living eyes are so limited. Maybe I was also too young to look pass all that arrogance and realize that Gregory could very easily have gone back to England, where he wouldn't be treated as a criminal alien. Xenophobia was terrible, but he stayed in America and fought with the rest of us, and more than that, he was a leader in a revolution that wasn't even own his homeland. And my God, the losses he had to go through to pay that price weren't small.

A good example of what I'm saying is his cool as fuck mechanical leg. Should I tell you how that happened? Well, no, I'll let Kyle tell it when the time comes. He was very close to Gregory when his leg was cut off. Let's focus on now, this is very important.

He is working at his desk, fancy as ever. Gregory suits always fits perfectly on his body, alternating bright colors and pastel tones, the pants are never the same colors as the blazer. Below, as always, he wears a printed shirt - silk, usually - in a neutral tone. The mechanical leg is always exposed, especially because he likes the way it looks, not so much because he's proud of it or anything.

Kyle knocks on his door.

"Come in."

He timidly opens the door, putting his head through the crack and waiting for Gregory finished the sentence he's writing down on a piece of paper. When the blond man finally looks up, resting the pen on the paper, Kyle formally announces that there is someone who would like to see him.

Gregory hardly ever loses his words. But seeing a ghost would usually do that to anyone. After all, even with the cyborg looks and exceptional construction of a king character, Gregory is still only human. When the door opens a little more and Christophe comes in, just a few feet away from him, Gregory holds his breath for what seems to be an eternity. In terms of chronology, it takes about two seconds. Then he gets up, pushing his chair back violently.

This is a curious relationship and an improbably beautiful one, too. In the beginning, the only thing they had in common was the cause. The urgency to fight for a country and the courage, above all else, was what brought them together in the first place. They understood each other because they didn't waste energy with cheap emotionalism or sentimentalism of any kind. They were two people who appeared to be so cold, I never would have guessed how deep the bond between them could be, and indeed it was.

There was no crying when Christophe went away, of course, since Gregory realized that things were as they were and it was useless to cry about it. And he knew better than to get desperate when the Mole stopped sending messages from France. It didn't mean he was dead, he tried to explain it to Kyle - in vain - at the time. It was only after the first year without any news that he began to absorb the possibility of never seeing the Mole again. And that was infinitely worse than the amputation of his leg. But it made no sense. Christophe had survived much worse things in South Park, he could not have fallen down so easy. Gregory knew he was alive, he could feel it in his bones. He didn't say it aloud because it would be too cruel to Kyle, who had accepted Christophe's death since having hope was too damn hard. Unbearable, even.

They both love Christophe in very distinct ways. I think I can say that Gregory's love was somehow purer. It still is. It's family love.

The embrace is tight, almost violent. Their bodies collide almost angrily, although that is not the best word to describe what is happening in Gregory's chest as he involves Christophe torso in his arms and tears down his immaculate superior pose. The embrace is very, very time consuming. Painfully slow. But there is no melodrama; As they pull away, Gregory gives him a good look, analyzing the few gray hairs that begin to grow in the Mole's beard, the face of sinuous lines. Gregory brings his hand to the other man's face and caresses his cheek, holding back any tears that dared to moisten his blue eyes; Then says:

"Well, you look old."

"And you are going bald." The Mole replies with a smirk.

Kyle bursts out laughing, still by the door, covering his mouth with his hand.

The palm is in Christophe's cheek serves to give him a friendly pat before Gregory pulls him back against his body, hiding his face in Christophe's shoulder, his whole body undone, clinging to him with the despair of those who couldn't bare to wait not even a second longer for that hug. He mutters tight:

"I knew you'd come back, motherfucker."

The three of them are so immersed in the moment that none of them notices the sound of a blind man approaching through the hall, lighting the way with his cane.


	4. The Cause

February 04, 3644

We lived in three people, but there were actually five of us in the apartment number 101 of the Cardinal building (which had more than twenty-five years of existence and therefore produced every imaginable noise) on the Lieutenant Gaspar street, located in the gray part of South Park. It was a terribly quiet street where most of the people who lived there were students, since it wasn't far from the University. The city itself was quite small, so the contrast between the poor and the rich was striking; the two worlds were divided by the railway line, but that bilateral separation was totally asymmetrical. The rich part of South Park was dominant, of course, and it was said that the women over there wore fur coats made of animals in danger of extinction and threw away jewelry with the same banality that we consumed toilet paper. It was extraordinary. Daily, rich men drank whiskeys that were worth much more than our little apartment. Of course, the rich community was not larger in number, but they had majestic buildings which took over the city, so their aristocratic aesthetic was prevalent and defined the visual aspect of South Park, distracting them from the unpleasant sight of human rags on the streets crying out for food. Oh, how simple it was.

But back to the apartment.

As I said, we lived in the apartment 101: Stan, Gregory and me. Just across the hall, in 102, lived Kenny and Cartman. In our culture, it wasn't exactly acceptable continue on living with your parents after reaching the age of eighteen. Parents were raised to learn how to kick their children off home as soon as they had the legal age to be considered adults. It was curious because both my family as Gregory's were considerate to be a middle social layer; we never knew what it was like to have absolutely nothing. We never starved, not while growing up at least. But we were there, along with our three closest friends who came from much more fucked up conditions, one more than the others, but we all lived in the same space. We paid the same rent. We weren't living better than any of them. There was a certain pride to that, I won't lie. I think that was real for both of us, but I can not speak for Gregory. It could be nothing more than an idiot martyrdom of youth, as if our chosen suffering could validate our cause, if we even had one at that age.

But with my situation at home, living under my mother's roof would be much worse of a torture than living on the streets. I'm not trying to be dramatic. Was it right for me to think such things of the woman who raised me, despite everything, with love? I didn't know. My mother was a very complicated woman, a true spokesman of the revolution, but it was the wrong revolution. She was an active militant, highly nationalist, who learned to give up the right reasons to fight because, I believe, she was afraid of the consequences. She was always in favor of rules, that's how I grew up. I believed that they ruled the world, even if that made it a world that's not worth living in. To support her own impotence in the face of dictatorship atrocities, my mother joined the cause of the government against Canada when the war broke out. She was a respected union leader and an amazing speaker. When Stan really wanted to get on my nerves, he said I was just like my mother. Few things are as disturbing as seeing in yourself the characteristics you despise the most about your parents. Fortunately, this wasn't something that Stan pointed out frequently. He didn't conserve the habit of deliberately hurting me. Maybe he was just being honest when he said that.

Anyway, we made our own desire of living together useful when I decided to move in with Stan. We shared a two bedroom apartment (one for us, the other for Gregory), it didn't have a lot of space, but it was a very functional system due to the fact that we spent all day outside the home. Soon, I could see myself imposing silent coexistence rules I learned in my cradle, and neither of them was willing to challenge such rules. Stan had a harder time than Gregory when it came to organization. In this sense, Gregory was even conniving with my neuroses about everything in its place.

Even though Cartman and Kenny didn't actually live with us, they spent most of their free time in our apartment, where there was always food and the smell was pleasant. We visited their apartment very rarely, even though it was just across the hallway, because it was a place with very little furniture and there was no resemblance of a home. It was just a place where they slept, nothing else. There weren't many boundaries between the four of us – and for that, I have to exclude Gregory - because we grew up together, through thick and thin, never bothering to find a clear motive that kept us so close. That proximity wouldn't change after we moved into the same building on the same floor. Gregory arrived later, but he was as immersed in that environment as the rest of us. Kenny and Cartman had the freedom and intimacy to come and go as they pleased, even when we didn't particularly _want _them there.

That night, Kenny asked me to take a look at his head, convinced that he had lice. He was sitting on the floor between my legs while I sat on the couch to inspect his filthy hair, pulling the strands aside with my fingers to check his scalp. Stan was lying beside me, his feet on my lap, pretending to be studying, but too distracted by our conversation to be able to read anything. I always knew when he wasn't absorbing a single word that he read, simply going through the pages and letting his pupils wander, unfocused.

Gregory had been on the phone for almost half an hour, his phone books scattered around the table, looking for the right number, looking distressed, but quiet in his own agony, completely oblivious to our noisy conversation, to Kenny's free laughter, sounding like a boy as he held his own shins. His pants were folded to his knees, exposing the wounds of scratches that he carried on his skin because he had a lot of allergies and was constantly itching himself. His legs were always marked, even though Kenny barely even had nails; They were always gnawed and peeling off.

"I don't want any sensitive information, you ignorant bitch! I'm not asking for the execution plans of war prisoners, I just want to know if he's fucking there!"

Stan lifted his eyes from the book, a small frown of concern appearing between his eyebrows. We exchanged a long, hard look. Kenny stopped laughing, but didn't turn to look at any of us, so I couldn't tell what the expression on his face was like. Stan rubbed his temples, feeling the heavy air that suddenly filled the room.

"Well, then they should put a walrus in your place, shouldn't they? That, any fool can do!" Gregory shouted, slamming the phone down. His accent was much stronger when he got angry. He snorted like a bull, grumbling down. "Incompetent slut."

I don't know how many times I've told him to stop using "slut" as an offense.

I'd been around Gregory ever since we were kids and would risk to say that I'd never seen him look this upset, at least up to that point. That didn't mean he would reach the point of breaking something, but Gregory was one of those people who never lost his composure. This was true for the well-ironed shirt and the gel on his hair, there was not a single hair out of place. It was almost disturbing to see him so out of it, the heavy breathing and the uncontrolled speech overflowing him.

"No news about your friend, then?" Kenny asked, turning his face toward Gregory, but I pulled his head back to the previous position. There was a louse in sight, but his scalp had some wounds that I wanted to examine more closely. Kenny always seemed to be hurt in one way or another.

Cartman came out of the kitchen at this opportune time, his mouth full, chewing on a snack that he had stolen from our pantry, crumbs littering the area around his mouth and hands.

"No." Gregory aggressively replied. "The last thing I knew was that he had been arrested and deported, I had no idea he was in America. That imbecile must be using a false identity, he must had found a way to escape."

"But if someone is using a fake identity abroad, they wouldn't go around punching Sappers in the face, right?" Kenny pointed out.

"Stop moving." I said, slapping him slightly on the head.

Gregory crossed his arms and walked around the desk, leaning on the edge, letting out an incredulous laugh. He shook his head and shrugged, terribly looking like a father torn between morbid concern and anger.

"Christophe would do just that. You don't know him."

"Look." Stan said, setting aside his book about Communication Theory on the couch. The book was old and worn, second-hand, like all the books we had. Stan got up from the couch and walked toward Gregory, resting his hand affectionately on his shoulder for a brief moment. "I'll make you some tea, okay? Just calm down."

For him, there wasn't a single problem in this world that couldn't be fixed with tea. And more than half of the time he was right. Stan didn't use to get involved with the dramas the house, not in the emotional sense. He was so quiet and fully respected the space and limits of everyone around him, much more than anyone I ever met. He didn't try to fill the void or relieve distress with words he thought to be empty because there was nothing he could do for Gregory other than serving him apple tea. At the same time, Stan was the person that anyone would choose to have by their side in a moment of weakness. We both have been best friends since I can remember, so I might be biased about the understanding, fidelity and lack of judgment that always consisted of Stan's company. He also gave the world's most delicious hug, though Gregory didn't look like he wanted to be hugged at that moment.

"Holy shit, Gregory." Cartman said, grabbing a handful of chips from the bag in this terribly noisy way, but never taking them to his mouth before he was done talking. "Your boyfriend is gone. Just give up already."

"Shut the fuck up, Cartman." I said with an unsettled voice, even before he had a chance to finish the sentence. I sent him a cranky reproachful look, something very common between us, but that day was different. On almost every occasion, Eric would come back with a sarcastic face and indifference snoring, shrugging. To my surprise, he just ignored me, munching the handful of chips. Crumbs fell freely on the carpet, probably because the thing was almost over. Cartman noisily kneaded the package, clearing the area around his mouth with the back of his hand. It was the first time, perhaps in all of our lives, that Eric Cartman actually obeyed me.

Gregory snorted, uncrossing his arms. Something told me that he was not paying attention to anything that was happening around him. His eyes, which were almost as blue as Kenny's, but slightly mixed with green, stared at the dirty floor like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. But his pupils were empty, an impressive defense mechanism of someone who was never taught to deal with what he was feeling. This made it seem that Gregory was the coldest most indifferent person, because his face was always under control, dominated by this irrefutable certainty that suffer or grumble would do no good. It was almost not human.

"Hey." Cartman called me, dropping the crumpled bag on the coffee table. "I'll take a shower here. We ran out of hot water."

Before I could complain about the crumbles and the littering on our living room, Kenny stretched out to reach the bag and hid it from my sight. As if that would help. I let it go because of Kenny's effort and because I didn't want to fill the room with some empty complaint about Cartman, not when the air was so thick it was almost hard to breathe. Cartman passed by us while giving Kenny a slap on the head, possibly because he had been the one who took the last shower before they ran out of water. Well, knowing Kenny, he would take a cold shower without complaint. It was rare to hear him complaining about anything, he was the most resilient person I ever met. It was like he didn't even have a comfort zone and could fit anywhere. Cartman cursed softly, and even though I could not see his face, I knew there was a broad smile on his lips. There always was.

"This isn't right." I muttered, more to myself than to them, but Gregory looked up at me, taking both hands to his hips. He licked his lips, looking tense. I also turned to face him, hands resting on Kenny's shoulders. "Students are dropping like flies. Sappers trounced your friend right in front of us. And still, no one does anything about it."

"There are much worse things happening every day." Kenny replied absently, with a much darker voice than usual. "They just wanted to show us what happens to those who resist. The only reason they didn't kill him is probably because he's European, shit like that doesn't sit well with the Embassy." A pause. "At least not when you have that many witnesses."

Kenny and I watched Gregory with certain expectation. For some reason, my heart was beating uncontrollably in my chest. It was beating sore, accelerated, fitting so well with the long breaths necessary for me to feel my lungs filled with air. Gregory had heavy expression lines that made him look older than he really was; There were no wrinkles on his young face, but soft nuances of concern that sucked all the vitality out of him. He was a handsome man, as he had been a beautiful child. He had the kind of classical Greco-Roman beauty that wasn't all that common in Old America, not anymore. He slid his hand across his chest and pressed his fingers on his own skin, inside the collar, looking disturbed.

"We met in Yardale, those two years I spent in England to study when my parents thought it was too dangerous to stay here." He began to explain, sitting beside me on the couch. Kenny turned around to see him, still sitting on the floor. I remembered very well when the foreigners persecution began. Gregory's mother never returned to America because of that. "The British people were protected, but there weren't enough jobs, simple as that. And then there was no food. I was part of the activist organization to overthrow the prime minister. I was very young and had no idea what I was getting into. The group planned to hijack the hand of the prime minister, so we needed a mercenary. Christophe is French. The Mole, that's how he was called. I soon understood why, he always had a shovel on his back, he was always underground. Although… I don't think he used that shovel for digging."

As Gregory was talking, Stan returned to the room. My eyes ran quickly toward him, even though they hesitated to leave Gregory's face, so serene. The way I looked Stan showed a good deal of doubt, as if I needed reassurance that he was hearing the same as me. Kenny kept his head down, staring at the package full of crumbs he kneaded without even realizing. It was an automatic action, only to have something to do with his hands, producing an uncomfortably loud noise. I knew he was listening, though. This kind of thing prejudiced Kenny all through high school, I remembered very well: the fact that he always seemed to be in another world, but he was always carefully listening. Few people could understand this. The teachers always thought he wasn't paying attention.

Softly getting closer, returning my gaze for a brief moment, Stan placed the steaming cup of tea on the coffee table. The cup's holder was broken and it was supported by a saucer that wasn't part of the same set. He sat on the arm of the couch beside me, putting his arm around my shoulders. My body went rigid, as if my muscles didn't want to respond, but the touch was a relief. I leaned my head against him in the most natural way. His light hand immediately came to my forehead and smoothed my hair back.

Gregory sighed and reached for a cigarette in his pocket to light it before proceeding.

"All I wanted was to return to America. Things weren't working out there, Christophe and I left England before the outcome of that kidnapping. He did hijack that man, I was scared out of my mind when he showed up with this bald sir all tied up in our secret base. We used him to negotiate the liberation of political prisoners in England. But those people taught me how to fight, at least in some way. It was so... So liberating to feel like we were doing something. It was stupid, really, I don't think we were really helping anyone with our little terrorist attacks. The thing got out of control very fast, you know? After Christophe came into the picture... He was like fuel to inflame the hatred those people had for their own land, for the way things worked. Something in his speech... It hit something that we all carried deep down, that part of the memory that no one wants to visit, the Mole had it out in the open. He didn't learn his tricks there, not like me. He was already experienced by the age of seventeen." He brought his hand closer to his face, holding the cigarette between the index and middle finger, letting the air out through his mouth as if he had been holding it for years. The blue rigorous smoke rose slowly, dramatizing the rigid expression behind that veil of smoke. Suddenly, he shook his head as if waking up from a trance and stretched to reach the cup. Finally, he took a long sip of the tea. "Anyway, Christophe soon got arrested and we lost touch."

None of us dared to ask what he was arrested for. Gregory had told us he killed someone, but never said who, how, when. He didn't seem open to discuss it.

Stan lifted his face at Gregory, dark and thick eyebrows furrowing slightly, more out of strangeness than doubt.

We knew about that sort of thing. It wasn't like you could get to that point of a dictatorship without any retaliation. There were organizations, rebel groups and things like that, and they had been acting for almost a decade now. I always followed the reports through the newspaper describing the movements in New York, where the main leaders were centralized, but there were many resistance groups spread across the country. The sappers never spared violence of combat with the revolutionaries. Most were very young core of students who gathered to organize attacks on government institutions, some more aggressive than others. Of course, only young people were interested in that kind of change. Only young people had the energy, the time, the willingness and the spirit to bring revolutions to life. Blood smeared the streets of New York, more than in any other city of the Old Republic. Students were falling, one after another, they were reduced to dust or pieces of meat in a matter of seconds. That seemed to be the future of anyone who decided to get involved with this sort of thing. Stan and I were often discussing the attacks because there was always newspapers around the apartment with sensational news clippings, depicting the revolutionary movements as pure terrorism against the government. Stan seemed to somewhat agree with that kind of statement, but not for the same reasons the media did.

Well, if you think about it, there might be for the exact same reason: fear. Journalists were afraid. Stan was afraid, not so much for himself as for the people who would get hurt when they put themselves on the front line against the government, inevitably. We all knew what that was.

We always read about those whose newspapers called"The Canadian Stigma", but among the anti-dictatorship activists, they were known as the fathers of the revolution. Terrance and Phillip, two names that always came together to the point that they appeared to be two halves of the same being. A single master mind that represented the strength of the resistance. No one ever knew exactly where they were, or how many people worked for them. It was extraordinary how two men like them, movement leaders, could remain hidden when every person in Old America knew their faces. My mother always referred to them as "demons."

Kenny ran a hand through his hair, as if to return to it to its strategically messy state like he always wore, taking the opportunity to scratch his scalp. Something told me that his itch was most likely a way to deal with nerve compulsiveness, not lice. Stan made tea, Kenny itched, Cartman ate. Each one of us had a way of dealing with the fragility of the world around us.

But Gregory and I did not have the same interest to cover up the problem and look at the other side. I could see it in his eyes, the thirst, the anger, the failure to conform. Maybe we both were just less complacent, less happy. I recognized in Gregory the torture of silence. I literally recognized it because this torture was too familiar to me; I carried it on my chest every day. Gregory spoke of the man – who, until then, was no more than a noisy nuisance in my memory - as if he was the meaning of the fight, the meaning of the cause, because Gregory knew what it was like to have someone to resist for. I also knew what that was like.

Because while my mother bravely cried about the safety of our children and how Canadian demons invaded and infected our beloved nation, she was also hiding a "Canadian demon" in her own basement, because in South Park, anyone from Canada would be taken and you would never hear from them or about them again. And that was not what my mother would like to happen to her youngest son. Ironic, I know. My mother had many ironic aspects about her that I almost got tired of questioning. So when I looked at Gregory and saw his need to fight for this man who meant so much to him, representing endurance, strength and courage, I saw myself in his eyes. I needed to do something to make sure I was contributing to a decent world where my brother wouldn't have to live in a wet basement, dark and cold. Alone.

"I need..." Gregory finally continued, after taking a long drag on his cigarette, letting the silence settle for so long that none of us imagined he would proceed. "I need to know if you guys will be with me when the time comes."

"Gregory..." Stan hesitated, shaking his head. He pulled his arm away from me, taking his hand to his chin to hold his own face, rubbing the fingers on the skin with concern. I swallowed hard by the reproachful tone of his voice.

"What does that mean?" I asked, just because it felt like someone had to ask.

"It means that it's time to show these motherfuckers that we're not rats. And I'll do it with or without you, but without you it will be more difficult."

I could feel how Stan and Kenny exchanged a long look, Stan's subtle movement on the couch's arm, sliding forward uncomfortably. But I didn't really pay attention. I had no urge to share that look of fear, doubt, whatever it was. I had no doubt at all. Gregory was telling me exactly what I needed to hear, so all I could do was reach out to touch his knee, sliding closer to him. Gregory wasn't the most tactile person in the world, it was difficult for him to respond to any kind of affective touch. He held his position, one leg crossed over the other, his chin pointing down.

"Of course we are together." I finally said.

I still didn't know exactly what I meant by that at the time. But saying it out loud made me feel good. I wasn't referring to me and him, but to the five of us. I knew I could include the two men behind me, Stan and Kenny, regardless of fears they carried about. I knew my two best childhood friends well enough to say without a doubt that we wouldn't part ways if it came to it. Stanley and I would have a heavy discussion that night, before bedtime. But that didn't mean he would retreat. Stan never retreated from anything. Even Cartman - who elegantly withdrew from that conversation - I could speak for him when I thought about the blood in his eyes, how he was like a wall we would eventually need. I would never say that to him, but it was true.

Gregory covered my hand with his, even though his eyes didn't meet mine. Kenny scratched his head again.

Suddenly, the phone rang.

None of us moved immediately.

As if immersed in a natural and necessary anesthesia, Gregory stood. The cup of tea was forgotten by half, still spreading apple and cinnamon scent through the room. But that tea would not be finished, ever. Gregory walked like a drunken man, coming around the desk as if he needed a few more seconds to get ready to answer the phone, his ear still warm from all the phone calls he had made. He pulled the phone off the hook.

"Hello."

A pause. The ashes from the cigarette burning between his fingers were so long that it was about to fall on the carpet. Soon I'd need to get a broom, I'd already accepted it. Gregory took another drag, closing his eyes as if that gave him more pleasure than anything in the world, almost letting out a low moan. He let the smoke escape through his mouth and nostrils.

"You son of a bitch..." Gregory said, his voice loaded with caring and tenderness in such a way I've never heard from him before.

Apparently, Christophe DeLorne was as committed to finding Gregory as the other way around. That call was the beginning of everything.


	5. The Dark

May 13, 3660

The encounter I'm about to narrate deserves a fairly dramatic symphony as background music, such is the harmonic perfection of the movements of everyone involved. It's beautiful to see, very musical, in slow motion. The meeting spot isn't a corner suitable for bumping, but the key is that one of the men can not see and the other one, at the exact right moment, decides to lower his head to read an old report he just collected in the file room. Christophe's black combat boots, filthy and wet, step out of the room on the corridor's long red carpet. At the very moment, Stan sees the way with the tip of his walking stick, depending on his own instincts because he isn't accompanied by his faithful dog right now. The carpet is so thick that it softens the sound of steps and the groping stick, which contributes to the sync of the events; if not for that rug, Christophe would have lifted his gaze a few moments before, since he would have heard another person getting closer. But he didn't. At least not before Stan hit him with his stick, too close to back up in time. The papers fall to the ground and Christophe bends down to awkwardly grab them in the air before seeing who he had bumped into, apologizing immediately.

Stan Marsh's memory is something extraordinary, especially after the loss of his sight. He had never been good with names, but for voices and faces, he'd always been talented. And when he lost the ability to recognize faces, his sensory memory was developed to the point where Stan could recognize people by their smell, the way they breathed or walked, but mainly by their voice, even if it had been years since the last time he heard them.

"I'm so sorry."

When Christophe looks at him, he feels ill in his gut. But he soon recovers, as if Stan could see his face, disguising the shock of meeting him once again. He rubs his chest, sliding the palm inside the leather vest, squeezing as if it hurt.

"Stanley." He says in a troubled greeting, nodding.

Stan's blue eyes, so alive that they don't even seem dead, shine in curiosity. He even doubts his talent to recognize voices for a moment, it is clear, probably because Christophe DeLorne was killed and buried in the back of his mind up until that moment. For about three and a half years now, they hadn't talked about him; the last time Stan had heard Christophe's name was the morning he walked by Kyle's office and heard him crying. It was a very soft cry, the only way Kyle knew how to shed tears. Stan just stood there listening, breaking into that intimate moment without Kyle's consent. Kyle would never even know he was standing there. Even without his sight, he could see it in his mind all too clear: Kyle sitting with his back to the open door, immersed in that fake mourning, leaning forward and hugging his own figure. It should be one of the saddest things in the world, grief without a body to cry over. Stan felt almost like a voyeur, although there was no delight in it. What he held there was the internal struggle between the desire to comfort him and the restrain of the cold coexistence that kept them apart.

But in the end, Stan was also being watched that day. Gregory was elegant enough not to make any judgment aloud, so he just told Stan:

"_Kyle __has__convinced __himself__ that he's dead_."

Gregory, of course, talked about it like it was the biggest nonsense, at least at that time. Gregory had always been sure that, the day Christophe DeLorne died, he would feel it in every pore of his body. Time has come to contradict him, it is true, and it even made him doubt about the connection he shared with the Mole. At that time, Stan said nothing. It's not that he was indifferent to the grief and darkness looming over Kyle Broflovski's office, but his silence in the face of Gregory's statement has so much to do with his calm face right now.

Ah, the story between Christophe DeLorne and Stan Marsh would make a particular book. You already know what the trigger is. Is it too unpleasant of me to tease you with fragments of this story? Must I stick to my part of the narrative and tell only what happens now, fact by fact? You're so quiet, my friend. In the face of doubt, I'd rather err on the side of caution: it must be said that Christophe and Stan never disliked each other, but they never lived together harmoniously either. They didn't agree in many aspects of life. We must talk about the intimate character of each men to describe the greatness of their encounter.

Stan is an atheistic man. However, he's a theologian, a fervent reader of works on sacred culture, a gentle man of quiet nature and stable mood who's hardly ever bothered by the things that most people like to grumble about (I don't even remember having seen him complain about anything ever, even when I was alive). But he was indignant with the injustices of men and, in his own way, suffered by them, more than anyone I've ever known. He had a peculiar way of battling and that is how we can characterize each individual presented here: their way of fighting. Stan always believed in the kindness and virtue of men, since society itself corrupted this virtue, he believed that change would occur through education of that same society, seeing it as a sulky spoiled child, but not an evil one. For Stan, it was the lack of a collective sense of compassion that created hunger and misery, for he that is born in the splendor is easy to ignore those who come from dust, from slag. The rich fear the fury of the poor, marginalizing them, judging them as a villain who just started life with the destruction gene written in their flesh. While living as a poor man, Stan was the subject of this judgment numerous times throughout life, but he didn't hate luxury, nor its owner, firmly believing that the rich man was nothing more than a blind man, a puppet.

What Stan lacked was anger; The young Stan, I mean, the one who joined La Resistance with his firm purposes and beliefs, not the embittered man who stands in front of the Mole now. This version of Stan carries a lot of anger.

And Christophe, you can already imagine, saw any oppressor class as nothing more than a propagator parasite of a cholera, not only ignorant - as Stan suggested - but hungry for power and gold over the life of any unfortunate soul whose blood stained the asphalt and filled the gaps between the cobblestones, whose children cried in hunger and embraced each other and thus would be found dead at the end of the night, consumed by cold, hunger, but the extravagant parties never stopped, the rich music continued playing, the champagne was still dripping and all the food would be given to breed dogs. At the end, the two small bodies of embracing brothers would be seen as dirt on the sidewalk. "_What inconvenience_," the governments, bankers and madams would think as they returned from the gala at sunrise to come across the scene. They didn't understand how those little pests dared to crawl to the rich side of town to die, begging for a piece of bread.

Yeah, my friend, those were difficult times.

Christophe seen a side of humanity that Stan never had the opportunity to see at that time, so it is true that it's unfair of me to compare them as they young men they were. If I had seen the things the Mole saw, those abandoned prostitutes selling their children, the horror on the streets full of rats and disease, necrophilia, exploitation, slavery, I would also have the damn urge to hurt anyone who was conniving, to feed or sustain this evil.

What Christophe lacked was hope.

The two had many ideological discussions at the time of the revolution. Stan said, in those days, that Christophe had become the deformity he despised. Christophe replied that he was too much of a coward to do what had to be done, that Stan humanized the monsters.

Of course, this fight has contributed to the outcome that occurred between them a few years ago. But for as intimate as their ideologies were, there was something deeper behind the confrontation. There was Kyle Broflovski. In this regard, the tragedy lived in the fact that they were too similar, Stan and Christophe. They loved him more than life allowed and would do anything for him, at least when they were young, strong and full of passion, full of fury. Admittedly, in these times, there wasn't much _to love_. They all cling to what little remains of light and health in each of them. Note that now I go back to conjugate my verbs in the present; there's a reason for that.

Let's return to the encounter.

Also note that Christophe shows obvious signs of anxiety. He clears his throat, preparing the voice that was often naturally firm. There is a principle of underarm sweat, a strange lightness underfoot, a knot in his stomach. And there is silence. Stan can sniff these things like a wolf. Kyle doesn't take long to appear in the door behind the Mole, but he stops almost immediately as if he got caught in the middle of an immoral act, a very harmful thing, just for being the one who brought Christophe DeLorne, the man who should be dead, back inside their fortress.

"I know it's you." Stan continues, his blue eyes so focused in the man in front of him that an unsuspecting walker would believe that they could see. "It's not because I am blind that I..."

"I'm sorry." Christophe interrupts him.

I can't tell if he's apologizing for the cowardice of staying in silence, for the bumping itself or maybe for Stan's blindness. Maybe it's about Kyle, who is standing a few feel behind them and Stan knows it too, even though he hasn't seen a trace of light for years. How long has it been? I don't remember. Time isn't important anymore.

The fact is that Christophe realizes how much he has to apologize for to this man. More than that, he feels a cruel desire to kneel before Stan when he sees, clear as Gregory's crystal chandelier, all the darkness that lives within him now. I understand the Mole, it is scary. Not because Stan is particularly obscure or anything, but because Christophe has known Stan before the revolution. How light he was before all that.

Christophe doesn't kneel, of course, but he does extend his hand to grab Stan's with certain agony, crushing lightly the other man's fingers due to the measured force. He lets the air out through the nostrils and then he'll try to say something, but ends up only emitting a short, muffled groan of imprecision because nothing that he meant to say could, in fact, be said aloud. There is no one close enough to confirm what I'm about to say, not even Kyle, but I swear that Christophe's hazel eyes are wet. No tear is shed, this is all speculation, but the Mole ends up clearly offer a bitter smile, one of those that leave a terrible taste in your mouth, and covers the back of Stan's hand with his other palm. When I was alive, I never had the chance to see Christophe as exposed as I see him now. Stan's blindness should facilitate.

"I'm so sorry." He repeats.

Stan does not respond to the touch, only to the words.

"I can imagine. It's very easy to feel sorry for the poor blind man, isn't it?"

"That's not what I..." The Mole begins to justify, but almost immediately realizes the redundancy of his own sentence. He calmly lets go of Stan's hand as if it had been a mistake to hold it in the first place and he could pretend it never happened since nobody saw it. He licked his lips with silent anxiety.

He doesn't recognize this shadow that surrounds Stanley Marsh these days, but it is very easy to identify it because Christophe has been accompanied by a shadow of that same nature for longer than he can remember; He had never imagined Stan would hold such a dark demon that was slowly deforming that quiet unwavering characteristic of the man he met in his youth. And I can say that this has less to do with the loss of his sight than you'd think. Christophe knows that.

And he also does not have enough altruistic pretensions to try to rescue the lost link between them, try to take some of the skeletons out of that closet. He certainly has no intentions of being someone's punching bag, no matter how much he feels indebted to this man. The truth is that the Mole learned, after years of being callous, to have kindness to those around him. But deep inside him still lives a short-tempered creature in need to defend itself, even from those who didn't attack. He manages to take a deep breath, however impatiently, dodging Stan to follow his path. He turns his face aside to give Kyle a brief look with repression in his eyes. Kyle's still standing near the door. It would have been too easy if Christophe just turned away, wouldn't it?

"Everyone thought you were dead. Kyle must have been happy that you came back." Stan says before he has the chance of getting away. He's still in the same place, his back to the Mole, as if speaking alone, not caring one bit about the other man's reaction. This could be confused with the limitation of blindness, but Stan knows exactly where Christophe is. His sensitivity to the movement in the environment is frightening. He may even know that Kyle is at the door, watching them.

Now, I can not say for sure if this sentence came with the intention of provoking or not, I really don't know. It sounds too low for Stan, no matter how hurt he was, even after years, with the outcome of the triangle between them. I don't believe that his raw intention was poisonous. But Christophe and Stan, as I said earlier, have invested years into building and nurturing a distaste for each other and only one side carries a deep sense of guilt for what happened.

Christophe, on the other hand, has no doubt about the malicious nature of the comment.

"And you're not, I assume."

"I knew you would end up coming back."

Christophe narrows his bushy eyebrows and slide his thumb along the smooth surface of the paper pressed against his chest, staring at Stanley as he turns slowly, revealing his vast and blue eyes, much like the ocean itself, so vague, with no focal point. It's true what Stan says, he never managed to quieten that sweeping instinct that it was a matter of time before the Mole came rising from the ashes of the revolution back to their reality. More than ever, the Mole feels like an intruder. He swallows the accumulation of saliva in his mouth, and finally goes back to follow the path through the narrow corridor leading to the main hall. Stan leans on his cane with both hands, waiting, listening to the steps of dirty combat boots against the shag carpet with the hearing sensitivity that a person who sees could never have. When Christophe disappears down the hall, Stan also goes in the opposite direction, passing by the filer room's door where Kyle is still standing, watching him.

Stan stops right in front of him, sideways. Kyle's breathing is all he hears in that empty hallway. This makes him feel like offering a sad smile, it even makes him want to say something, but he doesn't. He just continues to walk, feeling the way with his walking stick.

Kyle had spent the whole day thinking about the moment he would get in the shower and could finally be alone under hot water to ease the tension that has eroded his bones all day. Now, finally, he rubs his scalp with shampoo and smiles to himself, relieved, enjoying the delicious sensation of the strong shower massaging his back. I've known Kyle practically my whole life (well, when I had one), I know very well that the shower is his safe place. The bathroom of his room has an old, elegant quality, basically like the rest of the house. The tile floor has an art nouveau look in dark cream and the wallpaper is Victorian in light green with some golden luminance. The counter is white, the surface is dark wood and the marble sink is almost the same tread color. These things say enough about who Kyle is, how he decorates his bathroom. Something quite revealing about him is the fact that he always lights scented candles before entering the shower. It is a delightful setting, I must admit. He only leaves the mirror lights on, all that rubbish that help him to relax, that isolates him from the world's chaos out there.

Gosh, I miss him. I miss the way he does things. It's nice to still be able to watch him from time to time. He looks so calm, so in peace right now.

That is, until a troglodyte violently opens the door, said door that was, as mentioned, inside his room. This door has never been locked before, Kyle has never even considered locking it because he lived by himself for so long that it made no sense. And I'll tell you something, don't fucking do that with a former rebel. This type of person is always on alert, always expecting the worst. Christophe should know that very well. Kyle, and everyone who actively participated in the revolution, could leave a son of a bitch unconscious with a shampoo bottle if it was necessary. The scare settled down in a matter of two seconds, but the adrenaline was still running through his entire body. It isn't all that reassuring either when the Mole suddenly sticks his head inside the bathroom like it is the most natural thing in the world.

"Kyle." He calls.

The shower box is made of dark brown glass, but it's completely see through. What makes the glass matte as it is now is the steam from the hot water falling from the shower. And Kyle takes the second scare of the night, pressing his back against the cold tile, modestly screaming, his hand pressed to his chest.

"Christophe!" He shouts, violently opening the box door, putting half of his torso out. It is lovely how Kyle firmly believes that the quizzical expression on his face saying "_what the fuck are you doing here_" will be enough for Christophe to realize the inconvenience of the situation. He flinches a little, trying to hide everything that he doesn't want Christophe to see, especially what's between his legs.

But Christophe doesn't elaborate social codes like other people, so he just asks:

"Where do you keep the meat hammer? And a really big knife, but one with an actual saw, nothing of that smooth shit."

Kyle keeps still for a while, staring at him, trying to understand if whether he's serious or not. The foam in his hair trickles down his shoulder and several drops fall on the mat right outside the box. There is absolutely nothing in the Mole's face that indicates he's messing around. He just stares back, waiting.

"Please, Christophe, tell me there is _not_ a Russian general tied up in my basement."

"Don't be stupid. If there was, I would be asking where you keep the pliers. You know it's much more efficient."

For the first time, there is a bastard smile gracing the Mole's lips. That smile does not spring as often as it should, but Kyle is very grateful for it, because whenever the bastard smile appears, his legs still tremble a little. Even after fourteen years. Perhaps this has more to do with the memories that smile brings back from a distant time.

But the ecstasy doesn't last long. Soon, Kyle remembers that he's kind of pissed off and shuts his expression immediately. The cold that enters through the door ajar makes him shiver completely, every hair on his body standing up. Foam trickles down his forehead, but Kyle gets it away with his hand before it reaches his eyes. He sighs.

"You'll find the Hammer in the bottom drawer beneath the oven. And there is a collection of knives in a velvet folder in the dining room. The blue one."

The Mole just nods and is about to close the door, but Kyle interrupts him, raising his voice to superimpose the sound of falling water:

"Seriously, Mole, what do you want with it?"

"What do you think? I'm cooking."

On that note, Christophe shuts the door in a hurry to get back to whatever he has recklessly left on the lit stove. Kyle takes a few seconds to process what just happened. Before he even has the chance to think about it, he's already closed the box door and put his head under the water pressure to rinse the shampoo and soap left on his body, quickly and careless, not even paying much attention to what he's doing. I don't know exactly what he is so afraid of, but he looks terrified as he turns the shower off and jumps out of the box, soaking the carpet and the bathroom floor while pulling the burgundy robe that's hanging behind the door. He puts it on to cover his naked body, not bothering to dry himself before. Then. he runs down the stairs as if to put out a fire. There's still some foam on his hair.

I don't blame him for thinking that his kitchen would be overturned inside out. I would also expect to find barbecue sauce running down the walls, all the pans dirty and scattered around the table, cockroaches building their own reign, some fat mass all over the ceiling as result of an explosion. Surprisingly, everything is in its place, clean and organized as ever. Kyle puts his bare wet feet on the last step, dripping water where he is standing. The kitchen's staircase is narrow, spiral, surrounded by brick walls.

Christophe raises his head and lets out a short laugh by the absurd image of Kyle standing there, breathless, in his robe, his hair still a little soapy, the red color looking much darker than it normally would under the orange light of this kitchen.

"What's gotten into you?" Christophe quietly asks, hammering a fillet of raw red meat with his firm hand, making an uncomfortably loud noise. He is facing him, standing behind the counter in the center of the kitchen, just below the dim light that only bathes the center, creating a darker environment around it. Across the counter, there are stools that Kyle hardly ever uses, but from time to time he'll sit down to eat on the counter.

"I… I thought "_cooking_" was a code to building a bomb or something. Is this human flesh?"

There is an ashtray on the counter, right next to the Mole, holding a lit cigarette. The blue smoke rises relentlessly close to his face. He drops down the hammer on the wooden board and picks up the cigarette to take a drag, holding it between his lips as he turns his back to Kyle to stir the sauce boiling on the stove, using a wooden spoon.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but it's beef." He takes the cigarette from his mouth to blow the smoke right after, compulsively stirring the red sauce. "Don't tell me you've turned into a fucking vegetarian. You're already a fag, Kyle, there's a limit to shit like this."

"What? No, I haven't turned..." Kyle meticulously observes the counter, getting closer to support his elbows on the marble, closely studying Christophe's back. "I didn't know you cooked."

"I've been living by myself for what? Seventeen years? Who did you think cooked for me?"

Kyle shrugs.

"I don't know. I was always under the impression that you hunted possums and cooked them on stick using fire. Or that you bit live squirrels or something."

This explanation, however bizarre it may be, is frighteningly consistent with what I would imagine if you asked me how the Mole survives. It's hard to associate him with any kind of domestic activity. It's curious to see him crushing his cigarette in the ashtray and then taking the wooden spoon full of sauce and sliding his little finger across the surface of the spoon, smearing his finger with sauce to suck it. That is how he tastes it to tell if lack salt or not. His response to Kyle is a short laugh because he knows it's true. Kyle goes around the counter and reaches the knife to start mincing the meat into little pieces, resuming the service that the Mole left side.

"I thought maybe, if you saw that I know how to cook, you'd think twice before throwing me out of here."

"I didn't throw you out."

Christophe turns off the stove and turns around to face him, leaning against the counter, but Kyle still has his back to him; He slightly turns his face to the side for a moment, seeing the Mole in the corner of his eye, as if there was a dangerous predator behind him.

"_Oh no__n_? So should I call Gregory and tell him I won't be staying at his house? Because you know Gregory, he's too neurotic about wearing shoes in the house and everything there smells like lavender, it's disturbing."

There's a certain sarcasm to his voice that is bothering Kyle.

"You don't need..." Kyle interrupts his own sentence and shakes his head. "I never said I didn't want you here, you can stay until you find yourself a permanent place."

"'_Permanent place_'. You mean, a house with a little white fence, a fireplace, a dog playing in the yard? Like everyone else." His voice is still sarcastic, but now a little uncomfortable. There is something aggressive in his manner of speaking, as he gestures with his hand, but Kyle remains with his back to him and his wet neck is all that Christophe can see. Kyle remains silent, cutting the meat with grace and firmness in the movement. The Mole snorts and adds: "Like you all did."

"Well, yeah. I think it's past time for you to do what we all did." Kyle rests the knife next to the board and turns aside, puts his hand on his hip and uses the other one to support his weight on the counter. "You've been living under cover and hiding for too long. Political Amnesty put an end to it all, Christophe, the revolution is over."

"_H__ere_. The revolution is over here." He answers, sounding disturbed, like a cornered animal against the stove. "You have no fucking idea how things are out there."

"And what does that mean? Are you going back to Europe, then?"

"I don't know, Kyle."

Here's the truth: Kyle wants to ask him to stay, for the love of God. But this kind of thing doesn't come out of his mouth, because that's not how things work between them. He knows that asking Christophe to stop doing the only thing he knows how to do, which is to fight, would be like shooting a wolf in the paw and locking it up in a cage. So he won't ask, but that doesn't stop him from wanting. Wanting a lot. Then he covers his face with both hands and takes a deep breath. Christophe steps away from the stove and gets a little closer to him, looking worried now.

"What is it?" He asks uncomfortably, trying to reach out to touch Kyle, but doesn't know how to.

"Nothing." Kyle responds with a weak smile, lowering his hands. "Look, if you feel like you have to leave because of what I said… Don't. I don't want you to go anywhere. Not for me."

"So what's the problem?"

The problem is that Kyle has been deformed in the last fourteen years by his absence, by the sudden break and the haunting of this unfinished story that makes him so afraid of this man made of flesh and blood standing in his kitchen tasting Bolognese sauce with his finger, dirtying his pans, making Kyle think of all the things they could have lived together, the infinite possibilities around those early unpretentious feelings of simply _liking each other_ that hung in the air for so many years. Kyle is still hoping that this huge thing that exists between them, as the plant that someone forgets to water, will wither and die eventually, of course. But he can't say any of that to Christophe. He can't, for the love of God, look him in those feral eyes and say that he has fallen into this cave before, he can't say that he has once been sucked into the devastating cataclysm that was Christophe DeLorne and that he doesn't have the mental health to go through that again.

That was the only reason why he was hesitant to the idea of accepting this man into his home to begin with. Not because he doesn't want him there, but because he _does_.

Christophe accepts his silence as a response.

"Why don't you go back to finish taking your shower?" He casually suggests to Kyle, using an almost gentle voice, throwing the dishtowel over his shoulder. "I'll put everything back in its place, Mrs. Broflovski, I promise."

While there is some sarcasm in his hoarse voice, there is also an intonation so charming, almost _cheerful_, that Kyle has never heard before. Not from him. The Mole now turns his attention to the sliced meat on the counter and the various layers of thin lasagna pasta and the cheese he is about to melt. He runs both hands through the top of his head, smoothing his hair back, accentuating the muscles and veins of his arms exposed by a military green tank top. Kyle steps back silently, with hideously green eyes firmly fixed on the man standing in his kitchen.

"Sure." He whispers absently while licking his lips before climbing the stairs.


	6. The Hope

**A/N: **This chapter is a late birthday present to the person who feeds this story and makes me believe in it. Neg, I love you, thank you so much for listening to my brainstorms and helping me understand what the hell I'm doing. I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for you.

. . .

March 16, 3644

When planning a rebellion, you need to be quiet. You need to know how to keep a secret or two, know how to keep your mouth shut under the worst conditions possible. You need to look around your people and actually see them, not as single individuals, but as a whole. There is no ego in rebellion, there isn't "my ethics" and "your ethics". We are all one. And you also need a leader, because giving such a large proportion of people united by the same purpose, it is very easy to forget that you are not important in the overall context, that you are a soldier. Gregory played this leading role to perfection. There was something about him… It could be his handsome face, his penetrating and infinitely accurate voice that invaded one's soul and anesthetized them in every way, or maybe it was the fact that he did not look like any of us; he looked like someone from the high society that came down to tell the rats they needed to fight for what already belonged to them. It was awful to admit how deep the hierarchy was printed inside of us and we believed in it without wanting to. I must have underestimated the power of persuasion and the force of Gregory's words at the time, because I never imagined that he would have been able to gather so many people by proposing the madness he did at that time, that would risk their lives for something totally uncertain.

Perhaps I had forgotten, taken by my own conformism, that all the people who appeared in Gregory's father restaurant that day felt on their skin, and much deeper levels than I, what misery and exploitation really meant. I didn't fully understand those words at the time. Of course, I was overwhelmed by the desire to change, but who wasn't? Desiring is very easy, very primitive.

I don't know how many people there were. The whole thing took place in broad daylight, the only time when it was allowed to walk in the street. Stan and I entered the establishment talking about the risk, about the consequences of what we were about to do. We spoke low, but not low enough to reveal that we were about to commit a crime. Because rebellion was, indeed, a crime. Any act of resistance against the government was regarded as treason to the Nation and to the president, the man who had forgotten about that dry land, but still the man we had to swear our loyalty to every day. The door bell announced our arrival, but the noise was drowned out by the many voices that whispered all kinds of barbarities. We were in the middle of the afternoon, a few hours after lunch, so the restaurant itself was closed. Maybe calling the place a restaurant is a forced elegance on my part, because it was much more of a dark tavern that provided a buffet for half what we would pay anywhere else, specifically for university students who had no money for food. Gregory's father was a British man over his sixties, quite intimidating at first because he didn't show his yellow teeth to smile often, but we'd known him long enough to see he was one of the kindest souls that existed on this earth. Walter was his name. Despite his age, his hair still was a platinum blond and his eyes looked like two remnants of a sky that was no longer blue.

He sat on a stool in the corner, shut down, smoking a long pipe with all the tranquility of the world. Looking from outside, one would think that the old man had no idea what would happen if the iron sappers entered his property at any time in the next two hours. He knew better than anyone, of course. Walter, as well as his son, was also a guerrilla. There was a price he was willing to pay.

The tavern was dark, even with the sequence of lights hanging in a row on the ceiling. The glass around them was thick and had a dark orange color that kept the gloomy atmosphere, even during the day. The only two narrow windows near the door didn't allow light from outside to penetrate the room. The floorboards were dusty ebony and creaked at certain points when someone stepped on them. There were a few round wooden tables and old iron chairs. Most people, when the establishment was running, sat on benches embedded in the walls; its upholstered was red, almost burgundy but not quite, strongly contrasting with the dark green walls that looked black under this light. It was still possible to see that the walls were striped, only alternating shade of green from a stripe and another, but that was a detail for those who already knew the tavern too well, as the entire length of the wall was covered with posters and pictures of complex maps navigation in sepia, pictures of cars from a time that wasn't our own, others portraying fantastic scenes of London and also, finally, an image of the president himself. In the photo, he wore a gold monocle and lifted his chin so imposing, with a bushy mustache and thick eyebrows, in front of a purple damask background.

It was as if he silently watched over the whispers of a revolution about to break.

The mere thought of that Lord of Law spying on what we were about to do made me want to throw up. Stanley, as if sensing my apprehension, discreetly slipped his soft hand down my arm to find my own. He didn't intertwine his fingers in mine, just brushed against them, knowing that's what I needed. Stan always knew what I needed before myself. My chest and cheeks were filled with warmth and I almost had to smile. I didn't want to smile, not exactly, but it seemed like the only possible reaction before the scene we were witnessing. Even if all those people were still silent, the energy stored in this small tavern was painfully contagious. It was something I hadn't felt for so many years that even had forgotten its name: hope.

Stan didn't seem shocked by any of this. That didn't surprise me at all, 'cause if there was one true soul watered of hope, it was his.

I should probably introduce the figures that were already a part of my life before that moment.

I should also start with Wendy Testaburger, the strongest woman I'd ever met. One of the strongest human beings, regardless of their gender, that I would ever cross paths with. For years I hadn't seen that woman wearing a skirt, and that night was no exception. The brown velvet shorts were tights around her thighs, and very short, exposing the white skin to the knees, and from there down you could only see the high-top boots firmly laced; it also had a heel, small but significant to change her posture. The well tied up corset was the same shade of velvet in the belly area, but in the bust area it was a yellowish green, stupendous, with thin black stripes. There was a thick belt strapped diagonally on her waist, with a huge golden buckle. She was a magnificent person to look at and be close to. Wendy came from an aristocratic family, a rich one even, but her parents had lived as feared fighters in a distant time, when she was too young to remember. They disappeared, just like the overwhelming majority of the rebels from the last generation, and no one ever found out what became of them. It was a deep bitterness that had to Wendy carry inside her chest. She was raised by an uncle who had put her in a renowned boarding school, where she had to wear lace, skirts and corsets. That's when we met her, when she was still a girl who ran away from boarding school to play cards with us, hidden beneath the stairs outside the fish marlet. She had a fire in her eyes, a passion that drove her to that point: Wendy Testaburger was sure she could change the world. She'd always had trouble keeping her mouth shut before any kind of injustice, and for that, I identified a lot with her. Wendy could spend hours discussing sexual freedom, feminism, social oppression, the empire. I almost felt safer knowing she was there.

Clyde was the spirit of youth itself. My god, what a light soul. Life hadn't been kind to Clyde; it tore his mother from him when he was only a child, before his own eyes, she was beaten to death because of two coppers she had stolen to feed her son. Clyde was no more than six years old when it happened. He was one of the kids in our group who had been through the most difficulty because of that merciless system, but I couldn't remember many occasions when I had seen him without that huge smile on his face, showing off his crooked - and yet terribly white - teeth to anyone who wanted to see. That's why Clyde always had one or two girls hanging on his muscular arms. He had acquired those muscles by working in the construction works of the city ever since he was a boy. He was always wearing - and that day was no exception - a brown beret that covered his poorly cut and filthy brown hair. He cut his hair at home, since there was never any money left for barbershops. The vest he was wearing was gray in the back and navy blue in the front, the yellow shirt he wore underneath should have been white at some point and was completely wrinkled. There was an idea of a bow tie around his neck, though it was really more like a black little rope he tried to pass as a tie. Clyde was impossibly charming, I'll give him that. He could barely read or write, never took advantage of the free specialization education that the government offered to keep the people useful and under control. Clyde was therefore considered a dead weight that served only for manual labor. He didn't mind that. He drank and flirted even on that tense day, like it was any other. It was a surprise to see him there.

At his side, as always, was Craig Tucker. Craig was like Clyde's shadow in a way. They were almost always side by side and one was everything that the other was not. I didn't know much about where Craig had come from, but as far as I knew, he had father and mother alive and also a younger sister. His father was a lumberjack, his mother was a seamstress and had made a few dresses for my mother when we were younger. Craig was one of the rudest people I had ever met in my entire life, and it wasn't just a blunt rudeness like Cartman's, easily ignorable for being trivial. Perhaps because, with Cartman, I knew very well what was underneath those layers and layers of coarseness, and with Craig I didn't. Describing him as a shadow couldn't be more accurate, because he was always there, present with his impervious face, a wrinkle between the black eyebrows, watching everything. His skin was very white, as if he had never been under sunlight in life, showing very well the dark circles under his eyes. Craig suffered from insomnia, perhaps a conflict with his own conscience. He had been arrested more than once, always for petty theft or circumvent basic norms of behavior, such as walking on the street after curfew. Also for aggression, I believed. The system and Craig never got along.

Next to the two, further behind, hidden under the protective shadow of those two giants, Tweek. He was one of the people I cared about and liked the most. We weren't too close, at least not at that time, even though we had grown up on the same street. Tweek's father and Gregory's father were merchants. I was pretty sure he was there under the influence of the other two. It was a peculiar friendship, almost as much as the one Stan, Kenny, Cartman and I had preserved since childhood. And like us, at first glance, it was hard to tell exactly what it was that kept them so close. Tweek had been diagnosed as schizophrenic, but I was never sure about how accurate was this diagnosis and how much his parents really paid attention to it. He was a boy full of internal problems, always had been. He was too afraid of his own shadow, of walking outside, of the sappers, of being caught doing what he shouldn't be. My heart clenched in my chest for seeing him so shrunken, terrified, with bulging green eyes and an open mouth, breathing like a tired dog, compulsively clutching the sleeve of his military green denim jacket. He ran his hand over his own face, the hair, squeezing between his fingers everything he could reach. Clyde put a friendly hand on his shoulder, which seemed to anesthetize him to stop shaking. Craig eyes met mine, but his mouth remained a straight line, studying me with the same attention. He raised the glass of beer he held, as a greeting, but in such a subtler way that I could have imagined. I answer him with a nod.

"There." Stan whispered in my ear, putting his hand on the small of my back, leading us among the people who waited, anxious for what was about to happen. "You see Cartman?"

"Yeah."

He was sitting in one of the round tables. Actually, he was one of the few people who felt comfortable enough to sit as if they were there for the rum and the small talk. He rested his elbow casually on the table like he was the place owner, owing nothing to anyone. Kenny wasn't with him, not that I could see. But still, standing just behind Cartman, we saw Leopold, whose hair was so blond that - Kenny always said - it was as if his mother had squeezed lemons on his head and forgotten him in the sun when he was a baby. Butters always had a genuine smile on his face, even if only a faint hint, but that smile became unquestionable as we approached the table, bumping into strangers along the way. Stan hugged him affectionately, tight, happy to see him.

"Butters." Stan called him by the childhood nickname while he let go.

"How are you, Stan?"

It was extraordinary how the two of them could make it look like that meeting was friendly, casual.

Suddenly, Gregory gave three loud knocks on the surface of the wooden counter for the few students who exchanged words finally go silent. He didn't need to climb the table, as you would wait of someone who is about to make a speech to a small crowd. He didn't wait more than a few seconds so that all eyes were on him.

"It's great to see so many faces." He began, but his voice wasn't full and proud as I had imagined it would be. Gregory just looked exhausted. "I want to warn you that we are not gathered here to make something beautiful. I know we have seen all kinds of resistance acts in the papers, white vigils for the missing, candles and flowers, but that shit is not the goal here. So, you're not held prisoners. Withdraw whenever you want, just carry with you the awareness of what will happen to those who open their mouth about what they've heard here today."

He reached the pocket of his plaid vest for a crumpled pack of cigarettes, pulling one out with his mouth and lighting it with a match that was resting on the counter. Gregory didn't really smoke, only when he was a nerve wreck. I sat down slowly, almost without realizing I had done it. Stan continued standing with his hand on my shoulder, as a guardian.

No one left. Not yet, that is.

"Now, to those who will stay: look around and realize that these are your brothers and sisters from here on out. Once tasks are delegated and we start acting, you are sealing a commitment of trust and loyalty to each other. Then it will be too late to realize that you don't want to do this." Gregory was still too young to know how to smoke a cigarette with elegance. He held it between his middle and index fingers, gesturing with his hand in front of his face, pausing to take a slow, satisfying drag. He turned to Wendy, who stood there waiting. holding a green folder with both hands. He signed with his head for her to come over. "Wendy."

"We've talked this over a few times." She told the rest of us. "We studied what is being done in the big cities. New York is taken by the Monarchs movement." That's how the rebels militants led by Terrance and Phillip were called. There must be some dark humor to that name. "There are two types of approach: intellectual, and for this we need artists... Designers, writers, historians, people who can produce newspapers, flyers, make graffiti art on government buildings, draw cartoons of the President, all in a significant volume and still remain anonymous. We need fast, smart people to do the informative job. We are still very few, there is no possibility of armed clashes without the attention and courage of the people. This would make an impact on those who are used to things the way they are. There is an awakening taking place, you know. In New York, in Chicago, in Philadelphia, in Los Angeles. We have daily news of bloodbaths, government officials being attacked, disappearing... We won't get anywhere without a rebellious population, and we need to touch an increasing number of people with the message that motivates us to be here today."

"What is the other?" Craig asked, resting his elbow on the table. "You said that there are two ways."

There was almost a lustful gleam in his eyes, visibly more interested in other forms of protest.

"Well." Gregory answered for her, wrapping one arm around his own torso, lifting the opposite hand holding the cigarette, clearing his throat. "We have established communication, albeit limited, with the Monarchs in other parts of the country. Everyone who joins the rebellion must understand that certain measures are necessary."

"Like what?" Stan asked behind me, taking his hand off my shoulder to lean on the table. "To kill officers? Using ambassadors as currency, kidnapping, murdering?"

"Yes." The answer came with cold tranquility, as if he'd already made peace with the moral aspects of that a long time ago. "But there are other ways. The Monarchs used grenades to destroy empty parliament buildings, they beheaded every single statue of the President in New York, denigrated public assets, invaded assemblies."

"Kidnapped innocent people."

"I would hardly call them innocent, Stan. Do you have any idea of how many political prisoners they released using the head of only one city hall fucker?"

"And do you have any idea what they have done with the families of the military? Children, mothers, people who have nothing to do with it?" Now, Stan's voice had changed and he moved away from me to go around the table, approaching Gregory, whose accent seemed heavier than ever. Despite the distance, Stan turned toward me, then looked at Wendy like he was asking it specifically for us. "Do you think this is right?! Eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind, you know that."

He was telling the truth, of course. It was easy when we thought about the iron sappers, the androids, it was easy to not really see them as humans. But when a system so delicate forms and you start to divide the world between those who are on your side - the side of the people - and enemies - the military, blood-proud rulers, defenders of order - it becomes almost impossible to be sensitive to the pain of the other side, that is as human as the pain here. The media, carefully orchestrated to represent the Nation's intentions, alleged that the Monarchs were merely a terrorist group. And in may ways, they were. Terrance and Phillip had become icons for it. Two Canadian faces representing the extremist release, the principle of retaliation law, armed struggle that would not end while the American people were not free and the war against Canada ceased. The grandiose revolutionary movements - maybe that was a standard in human history - not only shameless shed the blood of our enemies, but also the revolutionaries themselves were not afraid to offer their blood for the cause. That's what Gregory was asking of us. It truly felt like the only way.

Opinions began to be discussed from all sides. Cartman ranted that Stan had to stop being a filthy hippie and sit down. Clyde bent over his desk and exchanged ideas in a lower voice with Craig, in a more questioning tone than a conclusive one, as if he had arrived at the restaurant with blood in his eyes and now a light had been revealed to him. Tweek just shook his head in terror to whatever they said. A buzz had taken over of the environment, contaminating the twenty or so people who were there.

Gregory smoked when he needed to have patience; which was something he never had a lot of, it's true. He ran his fingers through his carefully slicked back hair full of gel and kept talking in a more aggressive voice, struggling to overlap the other voices in the room:

"Listen, if someone else has a problem with that, I suggest you to leave. We have important things to talk about."

"No, wait a minute, Gregory." Wendy protested. "No one would be risking themselves to be here if they had no real desire to fight. You can't just kick anyone out for ideological differences, Stan has every right to question the aggressive methods. We all have. It is precisely for the right of expression and freedom that we are here in the first place."

He took his free hand to his chest with such a British sarcasm of refinement that would have been funny at any other time.

"Then question, Wendy. Question all you want. Just don't make us lose precious time seeking for a pacifist way out that, if it even existed, would have been put to the test long ago. Or do you really believe that someone wants to be forced to put their hand on a child just to have their demands minimally taken into account?!"

The fire was set in front of me very quickly. Wendy clenched her fists, Stan approached them trotting like a horse, with a whole speech ready on the tip of his tongue. A girl came out from two people close to me me, with dreadlocks on her hair and her body fully covered in tattoos, screaming that there was no such thing as a clean revolution. Other people argued earnestly with each other. Very few looked like they didn't have an opinion about the merits of a rebellion group. The sense of brotherhood Gregory had just talked about seemed to have been completely drained.

Lo and behold, out of the blue, a bottle of rum burst on the edge of a table, making a sound so loud that there was not a single head that didn't turn to seek for the source of the noise. In times of war, all of us seemed to live in constant waiting for a bombing. Stan seemed to have completely forgotten about the heated argument with Gregory, turning toward me with his blue eyes – a very rare dark blue, worthy of devotion - frightened, but his expression changed to a calmer tone when he saw me. I took the opportunity to call him back to the table using only my eyes. Butters was also sitting now, biting the nails of both his thumbs at the same time. Cartman shook his head disapprovingly, rolling his eyes.

I pushed the chair back to stand up, putting both hands on the wood surface.

Arising from a dark corner near the toilet doors, holding the neck of the broken bottle in his right hand, I saw the true spirit of the revolution. I still had stuck in my mind the image of the first - and so far only - time I had seen the Strong, wearing a green shirt so dark it looked black, buttoned halfway, exposing a bit of his chest. The shirt's fabric had a stain of something that appeared to be blood. He was wearing the exact same shirt, only this time it was buttoned up to the last two buttons. His boots went to below his knees, one of them completely untied, the shoelaces loose sliding on the floor as he approached Stan, licking his lips. That, for some reason, made my heart beat so hard that it wanted to come out of my mouth. Christophe dropped the huge glass shard of what used to be a bottle on the counter, his tongue still sliding over his upper lip. He slightly raised one corner of his mouth, not in a smile, but in such a way that made his cheekbone rise and his left eye narrowed in suspicion. It only lasted a second. When the orange light fell on his face, it revealed his purple bruises, some even greenish, which no longer looked too swollen. I remembered immediately the beating he took when I saw him for the first time. He held in his left hand a small aluminum cup he had used as an ashtray moments before using it now to spit in before also resting it on the counter.

"What is your name?" He asked, his honey-colored eyes fixed in Stanley, slightly lifting his chin, hinting at a grin while pinching his nose with his bandaged hand. It was the first time I heard his hoarse voice, filled with the heavy French accent like he had just learned English as a second language. I would later find out that he'd known English for years, he just didn't talk enough to ever lose the accent.

"Stan." He paused. "Marsh."

"Marsh. Have you been to war?"

"No, I've never been to war." Stan simply said, not bothering to prepare any defense, even though it felt like he was being attacked.

"You are an American, I suppose."

"Yes I am."

Christophe nodded in understanding. There was a tense silence in expectation of the spectators around them.

"So it's safe to assume that no officer has ever broken into your house and raped your mother right in front of you or something like that, right? Because you are not the son of a disgraced French bitch and you've never lived in a war zone where soldiers lined up to fuck all the women they can find."

Stan frowned, starting to get impatient.

"And what do you call this? We live in a civil war. I live the dictatorship on my flesh as much as any of you." He raised his voice more now, looking around for a moment. "From the moment we start to do the same as them, we're not fighting for a change, we're just replacing the people who do the nasty things."

"Here's the thing. When you witness such a scene, Marsh, a row of men thirsting for meat and many others who didn't rape anyone, just watched, one thing becomes very clear to you: doing nothing before an atrocity can be even worse than executing it yourself. Those you call innocent are the omissive motherfuckers who don't give a shit about us, the scum. They have no fucking problem enjoying their privilege."

"It doesn't matter! I don't depend on anyone's compassion to not become a monster."

"There is no "I" in rebellion, Stan." Gregory added, trying to sound rational. He put a hand on Christophe's shoulder as if asking him to back off to where he was.

But Stan didn't pay attention to it, still sucked by the dominant presence of Christophe. It was an animalistic energy and I could see that Stan could feel it too, so much that it almost scared him. He was so involved by the bloody gaze of that French man, who was slightly shorter than him by one or two inches. He could barely think. I called his name, reaching out to wave him over, but I didn't even manage to make him look at me.

"Listen." He took a step towards the Mole, who lifted his chin and looked at Stan in a way that made it clear how he was actually listening, almost curious. "You're talking about destruction, about… About hatred. We already have enough of that in our world, alright? All these conquers made through fear and terror didn't make anyone more aware, they change nothing. To kidnap the daughter of a governor or burn a chamber that might have people inside, we're teaching these ignorant bastards to have more hatred, not to see us as human beings. They have a lot more firepower and they increasingly kill and torture people until we learn to behave. That does not make them understand."

Christophe let out something like a low laugh, leaning his arm on the bench, shaking his head. Soon, that expression that resembled a sarcastic smile disappeared.

"You're counting on the good will of those who have a small head and a full stomach, monsieur Marsh. You'll starve to death waiting for the peaceful revolution."

"I'm just saying there are other ways. Better ways."

They were very close to each other now, as if they hadn't just met, facing each other like there was history between them. I don't know how they saw this exchange, all I know is how it looked to me from the outside: a crude contrast between that harmonious aristocratic beauty of Stan's polished face, straight nose and dimples, his cheekbones high and elegant, his rounded jaw, all in contrast to Christophe's squared aggressive face, that kind of filthy beauty, the bruised skin along with the permanent marks of one who has lived a suffering life, looking much older than he was now, which made him look beautiful. Piercing eyes like a hawk's.

Gregory was between them. He then decided to intervene again:

"Stan, please. We don't have much time. There is no other action to be taken, we need to start to organize ourselves. We can't still be arguing about the hows."

Stan looked back at him, taking a step back as if he had broken whatever spell it was that Christophe had on him. I knew Stan almost better than myself; therefore I knew that even before the silence and the look of disappointment, he was about to clench his fists - and did so - to contain the anger. He took a deep breath, but still said nothing. Gregory continued:

"I hope to continue seeing you here."

"Yeah, I don't think you will."

And with that, Stan turned around, marching out to the door, passing by me as if he didn't remember I was even there. I took a step forward to follow him, but before going, I looked back at the Mole, that exotic and intimidating creature. He leaned over the counter to reach a toothpick, bringing it to his mouth as he turned around, meeting my gaze. I turned my head instinctively, as if he had caught me doing something wrong. When I realized that instinct, I slowly turned back to look at him, only to see that he had not moved a muscle. He was still standing there with the toothpick stuck between his teeth, those hazel eyes stained with yellow eating me alive, the hard expression of one who observes a wall and has nothing to be ashamed of. I heard Cartman's voice mumbling something like "fucking finally", but even if he were right next to me, it sounded like it had come from miles away. It was only when Christophe raised his eyebrows at me, perhaps in question, that I could break eye contact and walk steadily behind Stan.

"Hang on." I yelled at him as soon as I left the restaurant, running to catch up to him. It wasn't needed; he immediately stopped and turned aside to wait for me with his hands in his pockets.

He absolutely didn't look unsettled.

"What is it?" He asked me as if nothing had happened.

When I reached him, I was out of breath. I couldn't say if it was the short run, the tension or the way that animal man had stared at me. I rubbed my face with both hands, feeling my skin very warm against the touch. As I lowering them, I found that pair of blue spheres watching me with all the kindness in the world. I grabbed his arm carefully, lovingly stroking it as if I could offer some kind of comfort before saying in a soft voice:

"Stan, they're right."

As I expected, his expression changed in a second.

"You can not be serious."

"I don't like it, okay?" I looked around, scanning the deserted alley. The cobblestones were wet, but it wasn't raining anymore.

I stared at the camera on top of the near light post from where we were, soon turning my attention back to him, almost whispering. "We can't talk about this here. I know all of this makes you sick, but we knew it would be difficult. Please, just come back inside."

"No, I..." He shrugged uncomfortably, then sighed. "You go back. I'm not ready for this."

There was truth in his voice. Stan wasn't the kind of person who said one thing waiting for me to do another. So I took both hands to his face and pulled him against me, getting on the tip of my toes to meet his cold, soft lips, pressing them on mine, feeling his warm breath. I slipped my hands to his neck and felt one of his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me into a well fit hug, ever so comfortable. The kiss was short, noisy, our tongues didn't get to meet. I brushed the tip of my nose against his cheek, kissing his face, whispering against his skin:

"I really love you, Stanley."

I had been taken over by an uncontrollable urge to say it, simply because of who he was. For him to still believe in things that none of us could.

He smiled.


	7. The Train

April 02, 3644

It was almost half past five o'clock. Stan worked in a warehouse until 7p.m. and I had learned to live with my heart sinking in the chest until I heard the sound of his keys entering the lock around a quarter to eight; any second longer would make the most dire scenarios take over of my mind. But he always ended up coming home with his calm face, removing his hat to scratch his head in the same fashion he did when we were children, telling me how tired he felt. Usually, Stan would get home cracking his knuckles and stretching. The curfew extended until 9p.m. during the weekdays, but still, no one who walked around the streets after dark would be seen with good eyes, even the working citizens. By the time that I went up the stairs to the train station, the moon was already visible in the sky, although there was still an orange light bathing the old buildings of the city. Visually speaking, the dusk in South Park was spectacular. I'd always loved it.

Not that I could see the sky at that moment. I was inside the station dodging rushed bodies that came and went like a herd. I sniffled, feeling my nose getting itchy, licking my lips that were still mistreated by the cold, despite the weather starting to get warmer. 44 was a particularly cold year. Even inside that crowded environment, the air was still cold. The train I took every day to go home almost never crowded. I could always go sitting, usually opting for the seats on the back with my striped brown bag resting on the ground, safe between my legs. I had been robbed twice in that same train. That evening, the back felt a little more crowded than I would like - not too much, but still, the idea of unnecessarily sitting between two people gave me chills - so I walked forward through a few pairs of plastic yellow seats, each one had a person sitting on them. I had to hold on the iron pole when the train started running, still not giving up on the idea of being isolated from the strange characters on my ride home. Empty trains were never what one could call safe. But then again, was there any safe place those days?

I looked to the side. There was a man hidden under a large brown leather jacket covering part of his face, eyes closed. He was probably using it to block the light as he slept. He was facing the window, but even under those layers of protection, I could recognize the aspect of a brown hair that had most likely been cut at home with a blunt blade. I looked around before sitting down next to him. There should be more empty seats ahead that could have offered me a little more privacy, but it was like some gravitational force had pulled me to that seat in particular.

The approach of a body seemed to scare him, like a cat sleeping with its ears pricked, who's never really disconnected from its surroundings. He suddenly raised his head and stared at me with an austere face, his lips pressed into a straight line, such animalistic eyes that felt intimidating this close to me. I didn't try to smile like I usually would before a familiar face.

That's probably because Christophe was still unknown territory.

I joined my hands between my thighs after pinching my backpack under the seat, holding it with my legs. For some strange reason, I locked my gaze on the train's dirty floor and didn't raise it for anything in this world, even though I could still feel his eyes on me like they were studying my face, looking for familiarity. Gradually, I could see him returning to his previous position in my peripheral vision, gathering himself together, relaxing from the tension of that scare; but he never actually stopped looking at me suspiciously.

"I know you." He said.

And it took me by surprise. With the two brief encounters I'd had with this man, he had never spoken to me directly. His voice sounded very different from the other times I'd heard it, very rough and smooth. It was fair to say that, in the other two times, he was under unimaginably stressful conditions. I didn't expect to hear such a delightful voice from such a rude, dirty mouth. I didn't know if he couldn't remember where he knew my face from, but I – my clueless and self-centered self – found it hard to believe that he wouldn't know, given the violence that those two encounters represented to me.

There was no comparison, of course, I would realize it much later. The burning of a fight was still something new and exciting for my barely lived nineteen years of age, and Christophe was, at the time, a portrait of that. For him, as an individual, the fight was already a way of living. The only way he knew, to be honest.

"Yeah, we've met before." I said, glancing at his face, that fucking beautiful and always injured face, but soon my gaze relapsed on my knees because it felt easier. I awkwardly scratched my nose, thinking of what to say next. Maybe I should have left it at that. "I'm a friend of Gregory's. We share the apartment."

"Oh. Yeah." I heard something like a smile in his voice as he slapped his thigh in a gesture of revelation. It was very small, but the slap was loud. I turned to look at him and met the unchanged expression, his face still serious. He watched me for a few seconds before continuing. "I'd never recognize you with all that orange hair hidden in there."

It took me a while to understand what he was talking about, but then I reached the top of my head, touching the gray wool hat that protected me from the cold. It was true, it did hide most of my bushy hair and that's how I liked it. His words almost made me blush, practically hitting a nerve; Stan always said I'd never be able to commit a crime because my hair made me unmistakable. There wasn't many redheads out there. I ran my fingers across my forehead to push inside the hat a lock of hair that insisted on falling over my eyes.

Before realizing it, I was smiling at nothing. It was crooked and bland, but unquestionably a smile. I didn't use to offer strangers free smiles; nobody with half a brain did.

We spent a few moments in silence. My body subtly swayed with the train's movement through the tracks, mostly because I wasn't supporting my back on the yellow bench. Christophe, on the other hand, seemed to have taken root where he was. After the small exchange of words, I finally felt comfortable to look at him properly; beneath that jacket that now only covered his shoulder since he wasn't actually wearing it, he wore an ethnic pattern shirt of very dark colors, the first three buttons open and exposing a bit of chest. There was a dark green scarf – so dark that it could be mistaken for black - on his shoulders, but not wrapped around his neck. The pattern of his shirt fell so curious on his body, in earth tones of orange, burgundy, brown, red, green and a little blue. It was a light fabric that wouldn't keep anyone warm. His jeans were old, dark and ripped, a few old stitches coming undone after being sewn probably more than once. More the twice. He had an unkempt beard that, under the eyes of the autocracy, immediately gave away that Christophe was not a good citizen.

This could be one of the strongest reasons why the aesthetics and gestures of that European man fascinated me so much. I found myself extremely curious as to his way of life, about the things he had seen and done. Gregory told their stories, but they were all very secretive and strange.

"I remember you." Christophe suddenly said, stretching his legs. "From the meeting. Aren't you friends with that poor idealist boy?"

The very mention of that night made my heart beat faster. I could feel my own pulse in my neck. It was hard to hold back the instinct to briefly look around, scanning the place for anyone who could be listening.

"I don't..." I whispered, leaning a little closer to him. "I don't think we should talk about it here."

"And why the fuck not? Where we're going, only the scum goes. Who are you afraid of?"

Christophe was genuinely amused by that, but I didn't realize it at the time; I simply interpreted as a malicious tease. Gregory had also told stories about the carelessness of his French friend who, by luck or divine intervention, always ended up surviving and escaping. Another thing I'd discover later on was that luck and God had absolutely nothing to do with it; the Mole survived because he was a survivor. It was that simple. Perhaps there's why it felt so natural for him to laugh at something that made my heart so heavy.

I was afraid of everyone. Of everything. I warped my feet and took a deep breath, looking up for a moment in visible discomfort, clutching my bag between my legs to release that energy somehow.

"Gregory said you were like that." I stupidly said.

I was expecting him to ask what "like that" meant, but he seemed to understand immediately, showing his teeth in something between a snort and a tired laughter. He took his hand to his face, rubbing his right eye and then getting rid of hair that fell over it.

"Gregory says many things."

He wasn't wrong. That British egomaniac really liked the sound of his own voice. As much as I had always judged him for it, like I usually did, it also provided a false sense of security to have someone like Gregory nearby. I always felt better in his company.

"You know… Maybe, if you keep your mouth shut from time to time, you could avoid unnecessary trouble." I told him in the softer voice I had to give. It was very possible that my comment sounded rude, but it absolutely was not my intention. Someone like Christophe seemed to receive that sort of thing very well. Maybe rudeness was his mother language, even before French.

"Yeah? Like what?"

"How they beat the shit out of you in the cafeteria, for instance."

He parted his lips to say something back, and then kept his mouth hanging for a while without making a sound. The he shut it, slowly nodding, sliding both hands the his knees, rubbing them.

"You were there."

It wasn't a question.

"I was."

The sound of the train running down the tracks was all there was to hear for God knows how long. There was no one talking. Most people had been leaning on their own shoulder to take a brief nap – hell, I would have been doing so, had I not found that imported relic - and Christophe did not answer me. At least not verbally. The expression on his face said something that made no sense to me. He brushed his lower lip to the top one, exhaling through his nostrils, raising an eyebrow. He was thinking.

"I'm really sorry." I told him, keeping my eyes on his face that seemed to stare at nothing in particular.

"What the hell for?" He asked, turning to me as if I had torn him from some kind of trance.

"Well… I don't know, for what they did to you."

His raw response was a shrug and a disdain sound that completely dismissed what I had just uttered, shaking his head to emphasize the nonsense he'd heard. He frowned his thick eyebrows, like he was confused as to what would have made me say such a thing. Christophe didn't seem to be familiar with a number of things: compassion, empathy, affection. Those things were not a part of his reality. He reacted very badly to all of them.

"Why?" He finally asked.

"What do you mean? Because it was fucking gross. And we all just stood there watching it as if it was..."

"That's called common sense." He interrupted me. He spoke with such emphasis that he spat unintentionally. "It's a fucking joke to challenge a sapper, everyone knows that's suicide. You and your friends would be fucked if you'd raised a finger and it wouldn't have helped anyone, it'd have been worse for me too."

"I don't get it. If you know it's suicide, why did you fight back?"

"Cause I don't like when a motherfucker pushes me."

I laughed by the honesty of that answer and he also sketched something in the corner of his lips that resembled a smile, probably in recognition of his own uncontrollable irrationality; but then he shook his head, going back to the anger that memory caused. His French accent was so heavy that I couldn't understand a few words when he spoke too fast.

"Besides," He continued. "You must have something to lose. I think I remember the face you made in the middle of that crowd. Saying you're sorry is just a selfish way to relieve the guilt. Because the world is the way it is and you don't want to lose what little you have for it."

I couldn't tell if it was directed to me, to my words, or if it was a general observation. I raised my head to see if we were approaching my station, but I couldn't really pay attention to what I was seeing. Christophe's words pierced my ears so hard that it caused me spontaneous gastritis. I felt cornered. Looking in a mirror was always fucking hard. I stared at our silhouettes reflected in the dark glass of the opposite windows, my striped scarf wrapped around the neck and a white sweater underneath, my flushed cheeks and my cold, irritated red nose, as the distorted image disguised imperfections of my the face. Then my eyes drifted to his reflexion just next to mine, only to find him looking at the same image. He stared at me through the window's glass.

"How have you been released after doing that? You hurt man in white. Many have lost their hand for less."

Remembering that scene brought a satisfied, delicious and sanguinary smile to his lips, exposing his yellowed teeth.

"They could have made me disappear if they hadn't made the shitty mistake of beating me in the university cafeteria full of students. There were too many witnesses, the French Embassy would require explanations, agreements would be broken."He turned to face me. I repeated his motion. Now his face resembled that of a boy, as if he spoke of things way bigger than himself. "I'm nobody. But I'm a French nobody. This increases their desire to kill me, but it also makes it more difficult."

Our bodies swayed with the train's movement while it made another stop at a station. Mine was next. I grabbed on the iron pole with one hand and licked my lips, sighing deeply in understanding. Then I leaned forward to get my face closer to his, though not too close, speaking softly:

"Gregory said you were arrested in Europe. How does the Embassy protects you if you were part of the illegal rebel movement?"

He stretched his neck a little and turned his face away from mine by a few inches to look at me with his always blank face, expressionless, giving nothing away. If anything, he looked somewhat surprised. Christophe, The Mole, spoke a lot with his eyebrows. They went up or got closer together with a little crease between them, showing suspicion.

"Wanna know the secret to remaining anonymous in a xenophobic country?"He asked me in his husky soft voice, making me instantly approach my ear to his face, because his teasing tone was to tell me, indeed, a secret that nobody else could hear. Christophe didn't approach his lips to my ear, but his forehead almost touched mine when he continued. "The first one is not telling details of your life to strangers on the train."

And he pulled away with a bastard smile printed on his face, the first actual smile I've ever seen from him, crossing his legs. I spent a few moments presenting no reaction. Soon, I realized that this was it, nothing else would come from this conversation. I got up from the seat and grabbed my backpack off the floor, putting it in my back.

"That's fair." I said, still holding the pole, waiting for the moment the rain would stop so I could walk to the door. My legs didn't feel like moving. I didn't want to leave yet.

"But you... You have what it takes. We need people like you." He suddenly said.

I swallowed hard. I believed I knew what he meant, and as irrational as it was, it still frightened me. I slowly licked my upper lip, stuck in mesmerizing visual contact, drowning in his green-brown iris. It was a color I'd never seen before.

"And how do you know that?"

"It's a gift I have."

I smiled at him, simply because I wanted to, although I wasn't taking him seriously. I felt smaller as I wrapped my arms around the pole, hugging it with half of my body as if I needed that to stand still.

"That's how I also know..." He continued in a sober voice, clearing his throat. "That your friend won't make it. I don't give him a month to give up."

Not that there was really a way to "give up" once you were associated with a movement like La Resistance. Maybe he, in his crooked way, was trying to use euphemisms for something worse. He meant that the task, whatever it was, could eat Stan alive. It was stupid that his comment touched me so deep; this man did not know us, he had no idea who Stan really was and what he was able to take for the right reasons. Of course, at that time, I also wasn't so sure what those reasons were. I had no intention of arguing about it, but the comment angered me. I shut down my expression almost immediately and this was reflected in Christophe's eyes.

"He isn't my friend."I said at last. "He's my boyfriend."

"Of course he is."

A few moments before the train stopped at my station, I untangled myself from the pole and took a step back, still keeping my hand around it to keep balance. The jolt didn't give me time, though; even before the train stopped, I stumbled on the fucking inertia and Christophe's strong hand reached out to catch me for the first time (and God knows it wouldn't be the last), holding me firmly by the waist just so I would not fall. It lasted no more than a second. There were thick fabrics of clothes between my body and his hand, but I still felt its shape as if my skin was bare. The touch was safe.

"Thanks." I whispered hurriedly, getting away from him, straightening my torso in an awkward motion.

"How is your name again?"

I paused, not knowing why.

"Kyle."

He raised his hand for me to shake. I didn't hesitate to accept the gesture, even though I was already reaching one leg to take the step toward the door. My hand was covered with a thin glove. His was naked. Again, that strong - almost painful – grip intrigued me enough to change my breathing.

"Antonin." He told me. I frowned, forgetting to let go of his hand and take the next step. He chuckled at my reaction; I hadn't realized how my face immediately gave what I thought. "It's better than Pierre, isn't it?"

Of course.

Of course I couldn't call him Christophe, because Christophe was a libertarian, a clandestine, a demented. A revolutionary. That beard, those clothes that didn't match in the slightest the man I had seen two other times, who had caused such a strong impression, it was all part of something bigger. He had to become someone else to live in South Park and to be part of the movement, any movement, because being Christophe DeLorne was currently illegal.

I nodded in understanding, almost solidarity, grabbing his wrist for a moment and reaffirming with my eyes that he hadn't made a mistake in trusting me. I was, after all, Gregory's friend. And Gregory and Christophe shared something so intimate, an untouchable mutual trust I still couldn't understand very well at the time, but desperately wanted to.

I let go of his wrist and ran to leave the train before the doors closed behind me, still feeling the strange man's wary look burning on my back.


	8. The Horizon

September 04, 3644

Summer came and went like a breeze. For the first few months, it felt like nothing would happen. Things would just carry on their natural course, people would continue to die, the hungry would remain hungry, the rich would remain rich. Sometimes I wondered if it was really a cause worth dying for, since it felt like nothing we did could change a thing. But the news from other states kept reporting on rebel attacks and the energy of the entire nation seemed to slowly change, day by day. When I asked Gregory when we'd start acting, he told me: "It's too soon. We're still organizing." But never explained what that meant.

In the meantime, life kept on going. Even though the revolution never really left anybody's mind.

Stan took off his coat as he entered the room, and he did so with some difficulty due to the amount of layers of clothing he wore underneath. He started to move his hand to throw it on the chair right next to the door, but had the sanity to stop (he knew very well how much it irritated me), going towards the closet to hang it on the right place, offering me a graceless smile that immediately reminded me of my younger brother when he was about to do something he wasn't supposed to and mother suddenly came up. Remembering Ike made my empty stomach painfully twinge. Stan used to know by far the microexpression of my face whenever I felt this pain. It was a very specific kind. He took off one shoe at a time and slowly crawled on the bed, where I was lying with a book in my lap. I had to handle it with care because the thing fell apart after years and years of being eaten by moths.

He knelt beside me on the mattress and held out his hand to ward off the locks that fell on my forehead, using his thick fingers to caress my hair. I adored those fingers, the dark hair that covered his arm, that heavy gentle hand that could calm me down so simply. Stan's skin was always warm. He spent years working as a blacksmith with his father, until he was assigned the task of studying journalism (after all, media communication founded the government control over the population), but even having after doing hard work throughout his teenager years, his palm was still soft. I laid my face against his touch, brushing my cheek like a dog would, smiling vaguely.

Stan had dark circles, I could see. In fact, he had them pretty much all the time those days. His skin was very pale and his hair was very dark, accentuating those purplish circles under his eyes. He always slept very badly, just like my father, with a strong protective instinct, waiting for a bombing in the street or worse. It was their natural state at that point, which was curious, because both my father and Stan had very kind natures and didn't like harming flies. I wanted to pull him close, but didn't move. He kissed the corner of my mouth and shifted to my side, his body nor sit nor lying, stretching his arms. He was still wearing black and navy blue sweatshirt, which rose as he arched his back and moaned, exposing the beige wool sweater that was underneath. The heating system in that apartment sucked.

"Full day?" I asked.

"Not really. When the men in white do the... "Cleansing", I guess we could call, no one wants to go out on the street. Even those who owe nothing. You know how it is."

"Jesus." I covered my face with both hands and rubbed my eyes. They were burning. Stan used to get very upset by what he saw in the streets cleansing, when hordes of men in white swept the alleys to end the beggars, prostitutes and who else was convenient. Many miserable were executed right there, in the light of the day, because no one would defend them and no one would miss them.

There had been a day when I went to visit Stanley in the warehouse and we spent nearly ten minutes in silence watching the owner of the fish shop washing a huge bloodstain off the brick wall, right next to a sign that said "_flounder on sale_."

When I lowered my hands, Stan grabbed my arm and squeezed lightly; It was a gesture of support.

"Gregory told me that there will be another meeting." I told him and I paused, waiting for some kind of reaction. There wasn't any. "Are you going?"

He knew what I was asking. It wasn't just "_are you going to the meeting_?". It was a "_will you be part of it? The fight, the cause, the bloodshed?_ "

I tried to scare Mole's melodic voice off my brain, the sound of him saying "your friend won't make it," calling Stanley poor idealist boy for not understanding that any revolution must weigh the opposite extreme and destroy to build. I didn't even believe in that and didn't believe that Stan wouldn't make it. I just wasn't sure if he _wanted to_. There was not a shred of doubt in any cell of my body that Stan envisioned a truly human world, that he blindly believed in the essence of the ideas defended by the Monarchs or any other radical groups that used violence to resist the oppression. But he also blindly believed that, from the moment one gives up on their humanity to do the same as the oppressors, the purpose is lost.

Or at least that's what I thought he thought. We didn't talk about this kind of thing as much as I would like.

"Are you going?" He returned me the question. It was the only thing I didn't want to hear.

"I have to, Stan" I replied without hesitation, as honestly as I could. "He's still living in a damp cold basement. Everyday I wait for a call from my mother saying that he contracted pneumonia or... That they found him."

We never spoke Ike's name aloud. It was forbidden. We always avoided using pronouns, referring to him mostly as "it", like he was a dog or something. It felt like not saying Ike's name contributed to his disappearance, as if he could no longer exist in the world in which we lived. As my mother was an government affiliate and party activist, a public figure in the war against Canada, her children had suffered severe consequences. I was forced to keep an even more discreet profile than everybody else and Ike had been declared dead so we could hide him in the basement until the war was over - something my mother believed wouldn't take long to happen, but I had a quite contrary guess, because she had been saying that for years. In part, my mother's activism helped in our task; no one would suspect my involvement in any illegal form of revolution.

Maybe my motivations to join that group were a lot more selfish than I would admit out loud. I had tried to convince my mother to take Ike out of the country in many other ways. It would be safer for him in Canada, living with some other family who would keep their mouths shut for the right amount of money. Ike was a Canadian citizen, maybe that by itself would be enough for Canadians to help him. It was a huge risk, an almost stupid one, but anything seemed better than seeing my brother languishing in that damp basement purely for being Canadian. Our mother, of course, completely refused the idea. My father was submissive before her, he had nothing to say about it. I took some morbid satisfaction in fighting for the opposing cause behind her back, a cause that gained strength in the hands of two Canadian men in New York, a rebel movement that aimed for toppling the president that my mother so passionately defended as some kind of God. It was not uncommon to see altars for the President in the suburban houses, the houses of "honest people", as they said. History books told us that there was a time when these image worshiping altars were associated with religious figures, not political ones. But religion was almost entirely lost at that point, at least as a daily practice.

I would like to look back and think I've done everything that I've done for a more just, egalitarian world in which the people had a voice. And of course I desperately wanted that, as much as everyone else. But looking deep inside of me, what truly moved me was something else. I was willing to do anything so that my brother could live a normal life. So he could be free and wouldn't have to eat the left overs so that no one suspected that my father was cooking a little too much food. I hardly saw him more; I hated visiting my parents home, and when I did, it was only for him.

Stan wrapped his arm around me and tenderly pulled me against his chest, showing no fear about that subject, planting a kiss on the top of my head when I gave in to his touch, getting closer. '_Your mind goes to dark places_', he often told me. There was no hiding anything from him; the mere mention of Ike used to make my eyes burn. But I never got to cry about it.

"You know... Once you join in, there's no going back." Stan whispered, his lips pressed against my scalp, turning his face slightly to brush the warm cheek against my hair. "We'll know things... They won't let us back out if things get ugly. That's how Monarchs work."

"_We_?" I asked, raising my head.

He hesitated. But it was only a glimpse of fear reflected in his darkening blue eyes. His lips parted for a few seconds before speaking. "If you decide to be a part of it, I have no choice. I won't let you get into this alone."

I frowned, resting a hand on his thigh to lift my torso, turning to face him. Stan seemed to think that this kind of gesture was so natural, even romantic. I couldn't help but feel uncomfortable.

"Hey. No, you can't put this decision on me."

"I'm not. It's my choice."

"Yeah, based on mine. That's not right, Stan. This isn't a joke. If you're not ready, if you don't believe in the things we have to do..."

"I believe in you."

His voice was so soft that it almost tortured me. He brought his hand to my cheek, trying to approach his face to mine, but I looked away and snorted. I could still feel him staring at my face with tenderness and curiosity; I didn't have to look at him to know exactly how his lips were slightly parted and there would be a childish shine in his pupils. His hand slipped through my curls, smoothing them back, exposing my forehead to kiss it.

"You're going to reach a point where you have to do things you don't want to do." I muttered, turning to face him. "And you'll resent me for it."

"That won't happen."

Stan had the terrible habit to promise me things he knew he couldn't keep because he wanted to make me feel safe. '_Everything will be fine, Kyle_.' '_No one will find It_.' '_We'll live to see the end of the Regime._' '_Your mom will realize that she's on the wrong side_.' He constantly lied to me. Or maybe he wasn't lying, I can accept that he really believed the things he said to me. This was just one of the opposite traits in your personalities: his nature was optimistic and hopeful. I could never understand it. Living in the environment in which we had been raised and grown up, I never learned how to have hope. Stan was like those wild flowers that keep on growing amid the rubble and nobody understood how.

Either way, a decision was made that night. Of course, much later he would bitterly regret not having realized right there, while there was still time, that our different ideas would possibly tear us apart. I can understand how he didn't see it beforehand. Because neither did I. Lying in that bed with my body next to him, it seemed impossible that anything in this world could rip us apart. It was the safer thing I had in life. Part of me, anguished, wished he didn't join the movement. It wasn't safe, I was aware, but that wasn't even why Stan didn't believe in the Monarch methods. He was a pacifist. It was very rare for me to find myself praying for anything, but when I did, it was usually to ask that Stan never got recruited to the war. It is unlikely, I knew it, that they caught the youth of such a small town that contributed to the intellectual work. But the government wouldn't give us a choice if it was decided that we were useful in the battlefield. The old America was being crushed. Our soldiers hardly ever came back.

One thing I knew for sure: I would never die fighting for that government. I would cut my wrists before allowing them to send me to war.

In the days that followed, we finally started to prepare for the worst. Given Stan's decision, our apartment turned into a small newsroom where the leaflets were produced. Thus I tried to calm Stanley's restless spirit, showing him the illusion of a more ideological fight. He also knew that it was false, because what we were really doing was create material to recruit more fighters. People like us, not even twenty year olds, we'd have to invite them to fight as silently as possible. Invite them to die with us. We needed people. Stan talked about reaching awareness to the greatest possible number of people, but I knew that the only way to do that was to inflame the hatred that existed in every person so that, when we made enough noise, the people demonstrated their fury. Consciousness about the oppression, we all had it, we all lived it in our skin every day.

Gregory took care of other things, he was hardly ever home. We met in the university, where we couldn't really talk about the following plans. I once asked him whether his French friend would back to university to study.

"I don't think so. He doesn't want to set foot in here."

I believed in what sounded like an honest answer. Strangely, the following week, the Mole appeared in the central hall of the university wearing an open navy blue flannel shirt with a white tank top underneath, wearing reading glasses that almost made me not recognize him. He was reading. Our eyes briefly met among the tones of lowered heads crossing the hall, most of them going up the huge staircase leading to the class rooms. The hall was noble, unlike the students. Christophe was just below the huge crystal chandelier that resembled hundreds of falling light drops. Everything was built in marble, the red columns, a baroque composition in the architectural details of the room. I stood there in the middle of the stairs lined with a velvet blood-red carpet, wanting to walk up to the man and talk to him about anything, but I couldn't think of what to say. I had to go back up the stairs, pushed by the students flow, so the Mole got lost in the crowd.

I met him again three days before the next meeting. Stan opened the apartment door while I pulled off my gloves and we walked in almost at the exact same time, our bodies rubbing against each other. We found Gregory standing in the living room, drinking tea from a clear green glass mug, while Christophe was sitting on the couch with his arms resting on his thighs, his legs separated, not wearing reading glasses nor flannel, stripped from that persona that apparently he had to embody whenever he went out in public. Now, he resembled much more the man I had met in the nasty meeting that took place in the back of Gregory's father Restaurant. The man sitting on my couch was Christophe DeLorne, not Antonin. He smoked, as always. Looking at him more closely, he seemed stressed by the conversation that got interrupted by our arrival. He ran his hand across the top of his head, compulsively tapping his foot. He seemed to have a nervous tic on his left cheek that almost gave him a sick look. Gregory, in contrast, remained polished and elegant in his ironed sweater.

Stan took off his hat and stepped forward, studying the other two. There were scattered cardboard molds and posters that Kenny had drawn spread around the room. He had plans to soon start waking up extremely early to go out and tar the government buildings, but we were still studying just how dangerous it would be to break the curfew.

Christophe and Stan hadn't met again after the event. I'd also only seen and actually talked to him on that one occasion, in the train, but every time I came home after that encounter, a part of me was looking around for him. There was this restlessness taking over my chest, a desire to meet him again that I couldn't tell exactly where it came from. It took me a few seconds to absorb the fact that he was right there in our living room. Christophe stood up and responded to Stan's gesture, taking the hand he was offering for a firm grip. He didn't repeat the movement with me because I didn't move. I kept standing behind Stan, alternating my gaze between Gregory and the Mole, who seemed completely oblivious to my presence.

"Did something happen?" Stan asked them. From where I was standing, I couldn't see his face, but the sound of his voice was tense and frightened.

Gregory took his hand to his jaw and rubbed it, allowing his fingers to go up under his ear, moving further up to find his locks of golden hair. He avoided sending a brief look at the Mole, but it was inevitable, because they shared some kind of information they obviously still weren't sure about whether to open for us or not. It bothered me a little, but I knew that was irrational because I fully trusted Gregory. He would not have brought this man to talk something secretive inside our own home if he hadn't intended to tell us. I had the physical sensation that my heart was squeezing itself in my ribs. I took a deep breath.

"Sit down, please." Gregory said before drinking a sip of his tea. He held the mug with both hands instead of using the holder. "I'm glad you're here."

Christophe stepped away from the couch, taking such a long drag from his cigarette that I could see the light dizziness behind his eyes. Stan obeyed, curious, leaving his backpack on the floor right next to his leg as he sat on the opposite side to where Christophe had been sitting. I, on the other hand, went to the window to try to open it, but the damn thing was always stuck. The smoke bothered me. I'd never had a problem with cigarette smoke before, but for some reason, I couldn't breathe. It was only then that the Mole gave me a look, but I ignored it, focusing all my attention on the impossible task of opening the window to air the room.

That fucking window. Jesus Christ.

"The Core of Monarchs in New York contacted Christophe today. Maybe we can be recognized as an entity. There will be a parade for the Presidential birthday in about two months, every Core will make an aggressive intervention. The event gathers a lot of people, it's the ideal moment to send a message."

"_Message_?" Stan asked.

The geographical organization was restructured by the demands of war. Although officially lived in South Park, there was no longer a clear division between cities and the states had no autonomy. We all lived in the shadow of that big eye, the government eye, the iron fist that ruled the country. My mother was taking care of the preparations for the President's birthday, a national holiday she took very seriously. The event would not be limited to South Park, of course. The central area of Colorado participated in the same celebrating parade. Gregory spent some time explaining to us, as if we were idiots, that in the coming days we would try to contact low-profile organizations around the closer areas of the state to join forces, so perhaps there was a significant number for the "intervention", as he referred.

Something in that speech gave me enough strength to push the window up, immediately feeling the biting cold of the street in my bare fingers. I swallowed hard.

"That would be... Showing ourselves. They'll know who we are." I said, more to myself than to them.

"We'll cover ourselves as much as we can, Kyle. But I understand that... It's a delicate situation for you. Your mother is already a public figure, you have... I understand." Gregory told me in his most condescending tone.

Christophe crossed her bare muscular arms, wearing only a loose military green shirt, like he didn't feel cold. He licked his upper lip as he stared at me, something so predatory in his face, slightly frowning.

"Sheila Broflovski is your mother, isn't she?" He finally said. His French accent made immensely difficult to pronounce "Broflovski". He slightly nodded even before I could confirm it, as if now it all made sense. "I noticed the resemblance."

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

It was weird how a part of me didn't want him to know. It was so stupid, but inside me there was a hesitation; maybe I didn't want such a radical person to figure out that I had such a strong blood bond with the enemy. Sometimes, I believed that my mother was the embodiment of everything that was wrong in the world. However, he did not seem surprised, disgusted, anything I had imagined he might be. I held my own body, feeling a terrible tightness in his stomach.

Stan, who turned toward me and watched me for a while, straightened his torso again and spent a few seconds in silence, probably immersed in his own fears.

"They'll shoot us." I suddenly said, overcome by a strange calm. "If we do this."

"I completely agree that any public demonstration against the government would result in firing if we walked down the streets right now and raised our flags in the middle of a normal day." Gregory said. "But not in an event with so many civilians, televised to the world. It will be a celebration. There will be thousands of people, it'll be easy to merge with the population. Of course, it'll probably... Turn into chaos at some point. But think. Think of the power of this message."

I covered my face with both hands. I could still smell the smoke of Christophe's cigarette and I could feel the open window stealing the heat of my back.

"You don't have to do it, Kyle." I heard Stan tell me, what made Christophe snort (perhaps one thing was not related to the other, but it happened in sequence).

That was also not true.


	9. The Way

September 20, 3644

The weight of what we did late at night was a burden for the majority of the group, a terrible and inescapable responsibility we should carry on our backs because we had no other option. The sense of community was so strong that many of us ended up forgetting that we had once been distinct individuals, cutting family ties, academic duties, all for the sake of what we believed to be the greater good. Some liked this community sense more than others. Craig Tucker had paper cuts all over his fingers and a dry tongue, both from licking stamps to send letters to other Monarchs members scattered around the Old Republic. It wasn't only in South Park that the preparations for the President's birthday were in full swing. We worked in a small abandoned apartment, one of the five that Christophe and Gregory managed around the town so we had areas that were easy to be left behind if someone reported suspicious movements. Most of them were in old, abandoned buildings, we never saw any neighbors, although a few beggars used the buildings to protect themselves from the cold. We brought them food and everything seemed to be arranged. I was particularly relieved when we removed all the machinery, brochures and weapons from our home; despite being a wiser decision, the relief was baseless, because the government could still sniff out our activities under the cloths and easily track us if we didn't follow the secrecy code.

The first weeks were the tenser ones, those when I walked in the street and attended classes in the university with the absolute certainty that they could all see right through me and knew what I was doing. This paranoia never went away entirely, and maybe this was a good thing, but I got used to it. I was focused enough; all I wanted was to work. After designating functions, we draw action plans and learn to move cautiously, without haste, everything started to feel more concrete. There were rumors that Gregory and Christophe wanted to teach us to use firearms as soon as possible, but no one talked about when that would be.

The apartment we were working on the protest art was the smallest one, muffled by the fact that all the windows were sealed with wood, and therefore, the only lighting we had was candles. Kenny was smeared in ink, deftly sliding the brush loaded with purple paint to fill the outline of the President's suit; the man's image was painted in a wide cloth outspread on the floor. It was awfully hard to find paper at that time, especially without money. Every material had been bought with money the party of Monarchs had provided us after we became allies. From time to time, we got a small amount of money for investing so much of our time and sweat, taking the risk to do that dirty work. Kenny wiped the sweat from his forehead, stretching while still holding the brush in his hand, smearing his hair even more with the dark purple ink. There was green paint strokes down his cheek as well. Kenny was the one who rarely seemed in a bad mood within our unit, opposing Craig's heavy energy, since that one hardly ever had something nice to say. That is, at least when Clyde wasn't around. Strangely, Clyde's presence always seemed to make him lighter, yet he remained equally silent and closed. Clyde helped him to lick stamps and write letters; despite his excellent intentions, the poor guy barely knew how to write his own name and his hand writing verged the unreadable. Sometimes, Clyde's presence annoyed me because he always seemed to occupy too much of that already crowded room. He never stopped talking.

Tweek also got on my nerves, simply because his anxiety was contagious. Kenny had a way with him, he always gave him a lot of handwork to do because that always calmed him down, just like being next to Clyde and Craig seemed to be very good for him. Tweek usually wasn't a part of our unit, where we produced small newspapers, brochures and street arts to spread around the city at dawn. He had no talent for verbal or artistic articulation, so he used to follow Gregory and Wendy in bureaucratic processes, but it wasn't unusual that they sent him to the apartment where we worked, or sometimes he just showed up on his own. He was extremely dependent on Craig, it was visible. He has always been, since childhood. I wasn't one to judge inter-dependence relations; I missed Stan a lot as I was working there, more than I can describe. Stan wasn't born with the gift of proper verbal speech, but I knew exactly what Gregory saw in him to make the decision of putting Stan in front of the relations with the student movements, raising awareness within the academic organizations to attract allies. Stan was born a natural diplomat, too charming and attractive for people not to listen to what he had to say. He wasn't as eloquent as Gregory, but he knew perfectly well how to hold someone's attention.

I wasn't sure whether he agreed with Gregory's strategies to call the frightened people to fight, but it seemed to be working. Quietly and slowly, the number of allies grew. This also inevitably increased the academic direction's suspicion, which redoubled the sappers attention on any strange movement within the university.

My task was basically to do the writing. The war reduced access to technology, leaving us with very low resources to produce material. I used an automatic type machine that I dug up from my father's attic; they were still produced, but at a new absurd cost, much more than we had to spend. The only detail was the lack of the "s" key on the machine, which forced me to give a space each time there should be a "s" in the word, and then carefully write all the "s" by hand with ink. Craig assisted in producing the newsletter, especially pictures. He was a really good photographer.

Christophe hadn't been assigned to any specific task, despite Gregory's attempts to tame him and discipline him to comply with any schedule. The Mole appeared whenever he wanted, and every time he set foot in the apartment - whether it was the hiding place or our home while visiting Gregory – the first thing he always did was taking off the eyeglasses and the layers of clothing that didn't match who he was but were part of the disguise. I always wondered about the nuances of hiding, if there was some sadistic pleasure in pretending to be someone else. When looking at the Mole, it didn't seem like it. He looked relieved using only the tank top that was underneath all the clothes, barefoot or wearing holed socks and jeans dirty with dry mud stains. Inside the hideout, he always seemed more active than at other times, ready for work, always standing and alert, checking everything that was done, rarely giving opinions. He smoked a lot in that tiny closed place, without any consideration for others, growling when Kenny made a joke about it.

Surprisingly, he and Kenny seemed to get along pretty well. There were some very strange bond between the two, that had been as unlikely as unplanned, through few words, usually by sharing a cheap drink and ideological concordances. Neither of them was a talker. I think they saw the world in a similar way, equally pessimistic, with a touch of almost spiteful sarcasm. Kenny defended himself from the world using humor, while Christophe did it with aggression. Overall, the three of us would stay up working until late at night, the Mole resuming tasks that Craig had left unfinished - when he was available to it. It wasn't smart to go home after 10p.m., for anyone caught after curfew roaming the streets would probably be shot by certainly not be doing good. Kenny liked to accommodate the stack of pillows that were on the floor next to the window, lying like a cat to sleep the sleep of just when fatigue overcame him. Christophe and I were still awake until sunrise, sometimes exchanging words, analyzing the work already done, taking a nap on the table full of objects, mostly paper and paint. He liked to take things apart and put them back together, things like my typewriter. Sometimes I was still elaborating texts, organizing the images Craig had printed, and he sat across the room just watching me. It was very comfortable between us, even in silence.

"I worry about you." Stan often said to me when I got home in the morning. He always woke up when I entered the room and undressed myself. "You're too involved. You don't eat, you don't sleep."

He never would tell me that he _didn't want _me to spend the night back in the hideout, especially because he was aware that he couldn't (or shouldn't) keep me from doing anything. So he spoke to me with his worried tone, pulling me closer to his body, sharing the warmth and talking about my physical and emotional health. I knew he was right. I actually forgot to eat for hours, forgot to close my eyes and stop thinking, because being immersed in the realization of our plans was intoxicating. The more I wrote about the anger of our time on the government's iron hand and on the accommodation of those who are too hungry to fight, the more fascinated I found myself by the dawn of a bloody revolution that was only a matter of time, we all knew it. It was like looking at the sky of the countryside, away from city lights, seeing with naked eyes that the immensity above our heads is made of stars and feel insignificant in the face of so many other magnificent celestial bodies. My ego, my desires, my fears, all of that seemed increasingly smaller. I didn't know how to explain it when I looked at Stanley's face, that beautiful face all swollen from sleep, full of love. So I just held him.

It was different when I was around Christophe. I never had to explain the proportion of that fight to him, he had been the one to teach me about it in the first place. Not in a conscious way, not through words, but his energy fed something in me that had been awaken and would never go back to sleep. And it was wonderful. It was wonderful to be around someone who understood everything and I didn't even have to open my mouth. The presence of Christophe was contagious; he lived, breathed, exuded strength. I felt stronger just by looking at him, as if there was a connection between us that allows me to feed me of that force.

The night I remember the best was approaching the end of September, the weather starting to become so cold that, even inside that stuffy room, I was hammering my teeth. The conditions of that building were terrible, the mildewed walls and humidity inside were certainly not welcoming factors. However, Kenny slept like an angel on the floor, covered in dry paint as usual. I wanted to cover him with the wool poncho I was wearing, but I felt bad for not having the courage to take it off. Anyway, he didn't seem to feel cold. The Mole had his arms covered by a thin, open denim shirt that exposed a white tank top frighteningly clean underneath. His clothes were never this clean. His hair also seemed to have been recently washed, another rare thing, at least since I'd met him. He smelled of wild musk and rum that night, his beard growing a little lighter than the dark brown shade of his hair, his amber eyes glittered against the candlelight on the table. A coffee aroma filled the room; he was making it in an iron pot on a little improvised wood stove in the kitchen, replacing the cigarette smell that I couldn't even feel anymore. I was used to it. Sometimes I even thought it was nice when he smoked clove and cinnamon cigarettes, they had a sweet aroma.

God, he was fucking beautiful. He had a slight scar on his right cheek, just one of the small records that told a fascinating history that he carried on his body. I decided to stop the ramblings in my own mind to verbalize a question that frequently came to me, something I pondered a lot about when we were alone. "How was it in Europe?"

I asked this question when I had already closed my evening activities, at least for a while. It coincided with the moment he turn down the regulators on the stove to let it cooling down and picked up the iron pot from the holder to serve coffee in two old aluminum mugs.

"How was what?" He asked me, peering at me from behind the locks of hair that fell in front of his eyes while he served me coffee; the sweet sound of the steaming liquid being poured in the container was like music to my ears. There was a cigarette on his ear, which he had apparently forgotten about.

"You know. Something tells me that you Europeans didn't put as much time in manual labor as we do here."

"And you're right. No one spent time on… Finger painting in white fabrics and singing _kumbaya_. The priorities were different."

"So you don't believe in what we're doing here?"

"Sure I do." He held the mug for me to hold and drink from the content, the delicious smell invading my nostrils from afar. Christophe was still standing, but he pulled up a chair to support one of his bare feet and took the cigarette from his ear, licking his fingertips before pressing the tip of his straw cigarette, supporting the arm on his thigh. "That's how you do things in America, it's such a fucking demagogue place, I've never seen anything like that. I won't say that your country's situation is better than it is back in France, after the bloody British invaded us… Man, it all went to shit. But it's different here. Even with the Canada war, none of you kids have picked up a gun before, isn't that right?"

I shook my head. We always had intimacy with weapons, but we never had access to it while civilians. I couldn't say that I thought this to be a bad thing.

"Well. That says a lot about how to make a fucking revolution." He said.

"Are you sure that we can call it that?" I pressed the mug between my fingers, feeling anxious. "Sometimes I don't believe that's what we're doing. This all feels so insignificant."

"Because it is." He finally lit the cigarette with a match and sat down, sipping coffee before continuing, resting his elbows on the table that was full of crumbs. His speeches seemed more eloquent when he smoked, maybe because he felt safer. "You and I, we're nothing, Kyle. Nothing." I blinked a couple of times as he spoke, a little charmed by the way he pronounced '_nozing_'. "All of you need to detach your vanity from the word '_revolution_', stop believing that you can actually do something. What can you and I change in this fucking barbarian world?"

"I… I don't understand..."

But at some level, of course I did. Just like I understood that it was impossible to stop and think about that sort of thing, completely losing the purpose of what had become my whole life since my path crossed with this man's. I needed to believe that the world was changing and we were able to do something, to be a part of it, basically because I needed something to believe in. Anything.

There was a candle burning on the kitchen table, which was covered by one of those plastic towels with a white and green plaid pattern. Maybe it was 3 or 4 a.m., I wasn't sure. The green moon was hidden by dark clouds that night, but the world seemed to sum up to the two of us in that cubicle kitchen, like the walls were increasingly closing around us. I knew he felt the same. He looked at me under the locks of tangled hair, pushing them away from his forehead using the back of the hand that held the cigarette. His eyes were almost yellow in that light, shining like a predatory coyote's.

"Forget it. I'm just tired. I don't know what the fuck I'm saying anymore."

"No." I protested eagerly, pushing my chair back so that I could turn my body toward him, sitting aside, forgetting about my coffee. "I like the way you talk. It's... It's different. You don't romanticize anything."

"There's nothing to romanticize when you're living in hell. If you want to know... Here or in Europe, there is no big difference."

I pressed my hands together on my thighs in silence and cleared my throat, watching as he smoked. He looked so at peace with a cigarette in hand.

"What does that mean? That all the stories Gregory tells of your deeds in England didn't make a difference? It's so hard to get news here."

He wrinkled his nose and showed a bit of yellow teeth. I wasn't sure if it was a grimace of pain, a bitter laugh or what. His spine was always slightly curved, now with relaxed shoulders and his head leaning a bit forward, looking more muscular than he actually was. He brought the cigarette to his mouth with a thoughtful expression, took a drag and blew the smoke in my direction, probably inadvertently.

"Gregory truly believes that he has revolutionized the history of mankind." He finally said, with a certain tone of sarcasm but also affection, straightening in his chair. His tone changed almost immediately when he continued to talk, as if trying to correct himself. "It did make a difference, of course it did. I mean, fuck, I don't even want to think about what would have become of London without civil resistance. This whole fucking shit about finger paint and sending little messages to the government is... It is relevant."

It was as if he cut his speech in half to get up abruptly, smoking in a more restless way, taking the mug in his left hand to bring with him as he approached the small frosted glass window just above the sink, too stuck to open. The small window overlooked a brick wall of an old building right in front, an abandoned chocolate factory and, looking down, there would be only an alley full of garbage cans and beggars trying to get warm. The Mole drank what was left of his coffee and coarsely dropped the mug into the sink. He seemed to think a lot before opening his mouth again, this time turning to me and gesturing with the hand that wasn't holding the cigarette.

"The difference is that in both France and England our youth knows how to hold a fucking gun. We were ready for civil war. I don't know how else you Americans expect this to happen. They understand that in New York."

"Have you ever been there? In New York, I mean."

He felt silent for a moment, his eyes drifting away as he nodded.

"Yeah, for a while."

The population was disarmed after the coup, breaking a long tradition of American love for fire weapons, and I had never considered it as something bad before. Stan always said things would be worse if the ordinary people were armed to the teeth waiting for the sappers when the whole thing happened. There would have been even more bloodshed. That thought immediately sent me to the way Christophe had talked about Stan when we met on the train, referring to him as an idealist fool who didn't see things as they were in black and white. I couldn't understand it then, but little by little, it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes and I could finally see things for what they were.

"You can teach us."

"What?"

"How to use a gun. You know it, don't you? You know it from experience, your know better than anyone else here what we must prepare for."

He pressed his tongue inside his cheek thoughtfully, then calmly took a drag from his cigarette. The mere thought of holding a gun excited me in an inexplicable way, not by the concrete idea of shooting someone, but because it was a tangible object, a physical manifestation of our fight. It excited me as the symbol of power that had been torn from us for so many years. I was tired of feeling helpless.

"I guess I could." He said.

An hour and a half later, Kenny agreed to go out before sunrise and before the first round of sappers. They were always scanning the streets, you'd always have to be careful, but it wasn't as dangerous when morning approached and they never really expected to find anyone wandering around when they shouldn't be. It also became a kind of ritual between us; walking through the empty streets of South Park in the cold mornings, defacing the walls, putting up posters. The cold was gradually worse and Kenny was carrying a flask full of rum for breakfast. It was a terrible habit, but I didn't blame him for doing so. I loved his company, especially when it was just the two of us under the red sky before sunrise, the green moon hiding and giving way to sun rays that barely came to us through the thick layer of pollution. It was so ugly and so beautiful at the same time. Sometimes, when we had enough time, Kenny and I just hanged out in the middle of the ghost town, looking up in silence, breathing in the frozen air. Christophe never came with us.

I was exhausted. My eyes were burning, tearing in defense. Kenny was wearing a brown wool hat that covered his ears, protecting them from the cold that he hated so much, specially after growing up in a house with no heating system. His skin reddened easily with South Park's harsh weather. We walked over the wet cobblestones in one of the narrow streets, between two crooked buildings that seemed about to fall at any second. We had already stuck a good amount of posters and hang a few cloths with drawings, and now, Kenny wanted to find the perfect place for a violent graffiti. He was an artist, that boy. I sat on the curb and supported my forearms on my knees, watching him work for a while. The way Kenny worked with paint and spray on that wall, as his blank canvas, was nothing less than magnificent. Within a few minutes, the outline of the President's giant face was beginning to form, with bloodshot eyes and features that made reference to the historical figure responsible for the Republic's greatest genocide case. We just called him Cahim, characterized forever by his glossy bald head and small round glasses. Cahim lived in the XXIX century and was known to exterminate a hundred million, mostly Southerners, during the third World War. It was a hideous comparison to our nation.

"Poor Tweek, man." Kenny suddenly said. I thought he was referring to the episode that had taken place the previous night, when Tweek spent forty minutes clinging to Craig's arm, rambling about rumors of the biological weapon experiments that were being made with political prisoners (which truly sounded like a scary sensationalist lie and nothing else, but we'd find out the truth about that much later) to the point Craig genuinely get pissed with him and leave early because he couldn't take it anymore.

"It's... Sometimes it's painful to watch. Craig didn't use to be so impatient with him."

"Oh, he's just really fucking stressed. We all are." Kenny bent down to open a can of paint, smelling it before dipping in the brush. "Also... I heard this weird talk between Craig and Clyde yesterday." He shook his head disapprovingly at himself all of the sudden, while skilfully spreading the paint over the wall. The image was haunting and began to give me shivers down my spine. I tried not to stare at it for too long. "I don't know what the hell is up with those three. I guess maybe Craig does to Tweek what Clyde does to it. You know?"

I let out a thoughtful groan, maybe a little disinterested, taking my hand to my neck, lowering my head between my knees. There was vapor coming out of my mouth. I was already delirious with the thought of going home to my warm bed, Stan's body behind mine.

"Hey. Are you doing okay?" Kenny asked, shaking a can of spray paint.

I raised my head to look at him. He wiped his dirty hands in his own pants.

"I think so. I don't know, Kenny."

"Are you and Stan...? I feel like he still doesn't totally agree with what we're doing here."

"He only wants what we all want, Ken, you know that."

"Sure. No, yeah, of course. It's just... You look like you're really into in it. You're invested. I was just wondering if everything's okay with you two."

"I really don't know how to answer that."

He was starting to close the cans of paint, hastily checking his pocket watch. He licked his lips, a little apprehensive with the time limit. I, like him, also always wondered what would be done to us if a sapper round appeared outside the usual schedule. We would certainly get shot immediately, without question. Kenny's clothes had paint splatters and that alone was enough to make me uneasy.

I got up to help him close and carry the paint cans before turning to follow the path of that long alley. He straightened his hat on his head, watching me from the corner of his eyes, as if he wanted to say something, but was afraid to.

"What Is it, Kenny?"

He bit his lower lip and took a deep breath, and for some reason, I repeated the gesture, filling my lungs with air cold. It was uncomfortable, but at the same time, a relief. I looked around to make sure that nothing was dripping in the cobblestones. There was a small drop of red paint, nothing that would leave a trail behind us.

"Man, don't you love just being able to walk around the desert city at this hour? When you stop doing something for a long time, you forget how good it fees. I fled the curfew all the time when I was a kid."

"You're crazy." I said fondly, grinning at him.

"Let's run."

"What?"

Kenny trotted like a horse in front of me, turning toward me to walk on his back for a while without saying anything, gaining speed. There was a child's smile on his lips, so free and uninhibited. The morning air did him good. I understood perfectly what he was talking about. There wasn't a single moment of the day when we were not bound by the ankles in one way or another, even working on resistance groups. In fact, I felt increasingly trapped for living and breathing the Regime to thus oppose myself to it. I had forgotten how beautiful South Park was before sunrise, with its narrow and haunted streets, its buildings and its crooked cobblestone wet by rain, the bitter wind giving us a breath of life, of freedom. Kenny broke into a run down the hill leading to downtown, unconcerned with the possible presence of men in white looking out on the top of buildings. He was sending a real fuck you to the universe.

"Come on!" He yelled at me, already far away.

And I ran. Tentatively at first, as a baby learning to walk, as if my legs had forgotten how to run. Going downhill was certainly helped, it felt so easy letting go of control. The wind was even stronger when you cut through it with high speed. Our steps produced sounds that reverberated through the whole alley, especially when we stepped with all of our weight into pools of water from the gutter. We did not care. It was the first taste of freedom we felt in a long time.


	10. The Unity

October 12, 3644

It was raining again. I hadn't seen the sun for almost two weeks, maybe more. Even when the sky stopped pouring water, the weather was still white and gray. It's funny how the weather reflected in people. Everyone around us also looked like rain, they all looked sad and tired, bothered by the hem of their pants always being wet and their shoes muddy, but the spirit remained. It was strange to find my rebel comrades in college ground, where everyone still found a way to pretend they were following the path that had been assigned to them.

The University has become such a secondary environment in our lives at that time. The school was funded by the government, of course, not everyone had access to equal education of quality, but to keep the population under control, they chose which role everyone in our youth would play in society. That was why the poor studied alongside the rich, only certain groups were assigned to professions considered noble; I myself was the designated to study Law and follow my father's career, as it was common, but that would have never been my choice - if any had been given to me. Kenny, who came from an extremely poor family and whose parents were seen as a burden to society, was studying construction work to obtain the proper technical knowledge, just enough to be a good pawn. Not to be confused with those who studied Engineering. College was just a basic school decorated for whatever role you were playing most effectively, based on where you lived, who your parents were, what qualifies you to have voice or not. The Academy shaped us and sucked all of our primitive impulse and self-will. All men in the classrooms were government men. That was the most dangerous environment for our group to gather. We tried not to even greet each other when we were there, at least the people who we didn't usually speak before. I continued eating with Stan, Kenny, Cartman and also Gregory. It was natural, we lived together (or very close), had other subjects to talk about, we were friends. But when Craig, Clyde or Tweek passed by, we tried not to make eye contact. Especially because they preserved a close relationship with Token, son of the richer family in South Park. As long as we've been friends or known each other, Token was the kind of person who could never suspect what we did. His family was one of the most influential in South Park, his parents had very close relations with Colorado politicians.

But out of that miserable environment, it was amazing how we all became closer by spending so much time together. I think nothing approaches you of another human more than a secret. Do something dirty together and you have no choice but to trust that person. I didn't particularly like Craig, for instance, but I still caught myself looking out for him when we spent the whole afternoon in that tiny apartment. I worried when he went hours without eating. I often made tea for him. And he covered me with his coat one night I fell asleep on the floor. I woke up just as he was standing up. We rarely talked, but the attachment was happening in one way or another. Clyde and Tweek were much easier to handle; I can even say that I considered them my friends. Clyde was a little slow and Tweek seemed constantly terrified of the whole thing – of anything, in fact - but those two were so pure at heart. Too pure; sometimes I wondered what they were doing there, being part of a clandestine group. Clyde and Stan got along very well. They were always talking about other amenities while working, just like Kenny. They brought a lighter tone to the environment.

We were going to find them for a meeting in Gregory's father's restaurant in the middle of that rainy afternoon. Stan and I were coming out of the university right after lunch when we met Christophe about to walk the same way as us. He didn't have an umbrella. He tried to light a cigarette under a marquee, but the wind wouldn't let him. Finally, he gave up. He walked quietly under the rain with both hands in the pockets of a leather jacket full of buckles and straps on the sleeves. His hair soon got wet, but it was a short walk and the rain wasn't as sharp as well, so he didn't seem to mind. Stan and I shared the same umbrella as he held with his arm around my torso. The two of them rarely talked. I exchanged a few words with Christophe and, for some reason I just can't recall, he ended up telling us that his middle name was Javert.

I started to laugh.

"My mother always liked Victor Hugo, I'm glad she didn't call me fucking Enjolras or some shit."

"You can not be serious."

"You have a problem with that?" He replied with a smile flirting in the corner of his lips. How beautiful he was when he smiled. It was rare.

"No problem. But I would be extremely offended if my mother gave me the villain's name."

He looked at me contemptuously, snorting.

"What _v__illain_? He's not the villain."

I untangled my body from Stan's to stop walking and turned to face the Mole. Stan was eerily quiet; usually he was even more communicative than I, but I knew how he and Christophe still had their suspicions with one another for ideological reasons. Stan still wasn't entirely sure about his methods and I could understand that. Christophe also stopped walking, randomly taking a toothpick out of his pocket to start picking his teeth, looking at me with eyebrows raised as if nothing was the matter.

"He's _not _the villain?"

"Of course not. Have you even read the fucking book?"

Stan - who knew me better than myself sometimes – couldn't help but laugh, covering his own mouth. My face must have been really entertaining, because Christophe continued to look at me with that damn smile that wasn't enough to sprout on his face, it just kept insinuating itself.

"Please. Respect me." It was all I said, crossing my arms, smirking.

"So." He gesticulated with that toothpick between his fingers, running his tongue over his teeth. His French accent seemed so soft when he wasn't scowling. "Javert is as much a victim as any other character. Blame the system they lived in, he is not a villain."

"He's a fucking psycho! Don't give me that shit about how sad his story was, that character is all that is disgusting in this world. Thousands of years have passed and the world is still the same shit because of people like him."

"Kyle, you better keep it down." Stan said, about three or four steps ahead, protected by the umbrella. I hadn't realized that I was getting all wet. I didn't pay him much attention; something that really pissed me off was to be told to keep it down.

"You missed the whole point." Christophe casually said, spitting on the cobblestones on the ground. "Some people never had a chance to think differently. Yes, he is a fucking psycho, that does not mean that he is the villain of the story. He's just a result."

"He tormented an innocent man for twenty years because he stole bread. As if the law were minimally fair. It wasn't fair back then and it isn't now, not here and not in fucking France."

"Yes, and when he realized that he spent his entire life condemning a good man, everything he had ever believed was destroyed and he couldn't live with himself. He had his redemption too."

"After an entire story being a fucking son of a bitch to everyone, what's the point?!"

"Guys." Stan timidly called. We were just a feet away from the restaurant, I hadn't even realized that. "The rain. Can we get inside?"

The rain was just getting stronger. I looked up for a moment, staring at that dark gray sky, random heavy drops running down my face. My hair was very wet by then. The feeling was almost hot, if it weren't so cold. Christophe put the toothpick in his pocket again and walked toward the door, teasingly saying:

"They shouldn't let Americans read French literature."

"Oh, shut the fuck up." I said, trying to hold back my laugh as he turned around to go inside, apparently ending the discussion.

Stan reached out to put me under the umbrella, careful as always. I smiled at him, still involved by the desire to laugh, but his expression remained serious. He also made no mention of walking to the door, even after Christophe had already entered.

"What is it?" I asked, frowning.

Stan always told me things with his face before telling me in words. I felt that he was uncomfortable and it want's something from just that day. I got closer to him so that both of us were squeezed under the umbrella. He licked his lips, awkwardly playing with his hair with his free hand. Whatever he had to say, he did not want to say aloud.

"That guy is into you."

I felt so strange when he threw that sentence at me. As if I had been caught doing something very wrong, but hadn't realized it until now. I may even have blushed when it happened, I'm pretty sure of it, but my face was red from the cold anyway. I held my breath for a few seconds and just stared at him with a blank expression.

"What are you talking about?"

"Please Kyle, don't. Don't act like you don't understand." He looked genuinely nervous, which made me want to hug him. But I did not move. "You know damn well how he looks at you, how he talks to you. He was teasing you just now."

"We were just talking... Stan." I soberly called him, holding him by the arm. I waited for him to look at me, trying to offer a smile as I said in a sweet voice. "You've never been the jealous kind."

"It's not like that. I'm not trying to treat you like an object. But it kinda worries me that you won't even recognize that... That there's something weird about the way he talks to you."

I put my hands inside my heavy coat and offered a weak smile, full of love. Even when he was bothered by something, Stan was very careful not to say the wrong thing and not to hurt anyone. He was too good for that world. I shrugged, somewhat awkwardly, not sure what to say. I sighed deeply and reached out slowly to remove a few strands of hair that fell over his eyes. Stan didn't pull away, so I stepped forward.

"Look. Even If that's true, it doesn't matter." I said, letting the back of my hand caress his cheek. "He knows that there's no chance. He never did anything disrespectful to me, so it doesn't matter how he feels." I took advantage of his guard down to press my body to him, wrapping my arms around him from inside his coat, approaching our faces. Stan was considerably taller than me. I let my nose brushed against his neck as I whispered. "You trust me, don't you?"

He didn't come to hug me back, but rested his hands on my back and didn't try to contain a weak smile that was born against his will, probably because of my hot breath against the sensitive skin of his neck, tickling.

"Of course I trust you."

"Then stop this nonsense." I put my hands over his chest, feeling the soft texture of the wool sweater he wore, sliding them up to his face, holding it in my hands. "There's nothing in this world that can come between us." I told him with all the truth that was in my heart.

I wasn't being dishonest when those words came out of my mouth. But it is remarkable how well human beings can lie to themselves.

The hunting season had ceased earlier that year due to the wretched cold that hit South Park in the middle of October. It was usually open until the end of fall, but not anymore. In other words, it was a very appropriate time to use the mountain forests and do whatever it was that we had to do and wouldn't want anyone to find out. We were deep enough in the woods not to be bothering to be on watch all the time, waiting for sapper or an officer to appear. We were all kids from the Colorado mountains (except, of course, for Gregory and Christophe, who also knew very well what cold meant, coming from Europe) and had no serious issue in walking in the woods in negative temperatures, especially that one in particular where we used play at throughout our childhood and teenage years because it was isolated enough to smoke every kind of herb without a care. Very rarely, Token would get us some expensive synthetic drug. Heavens, most of us were only nineteen when we returned to the area to train our shooting skills, but there seemed to be a huge gap of time between our adolescence and that moment. I didn't feel as young as I really was. And I could see the lines of concern in the tired faces around me, lines that didn't live there before. Not because we had an easy life before, but because we were so used to things that no human being should be used to. Indignation can suck someone's life very quickly.

Anyway, it was really fucking cold out there. Wendy wore such a lovely cream-colored fluffy ear warmer which had little to do with her. Her hair was loose, so beautiful and shiny, with a healthy look that seemed to match the aesthetics of this scenario. But her thick dark blue cape and high waist trousers which had four large buttons on the front, matched very well with her strong female identity. She was the kind of person anyone liked to look at, to admire. The leaves were already fallen and the trees had ghostly appearance with their dark twisted branches. The orange color of autumn were still vibrant and present, even though the weather announced an early winter.

Butters's cheeks were very rosy from the cold, too. He kept his hands in his pockets because of the wind, even though he was wearing gloves. His coat was huge, had no buttons and was fuzzy inside, revealing the baggy clothes in earth tone he wore underneath. His family didn't have much money for clothes that properly warmed him, or maybe they did, but didn't chose to prioritize their son in any situation. I'd known Butters since childhood and I could quietly say that I would crush his father's skull with a stick if I was ever given the chance. He was one of the most despicable people I hd ever had the misfortune to meet. A fucking profiteer who had nowhere to drop dead, but found a way to squeeze money out of his companions who also had nothing. He was drunk and violent, he constantly assaulted Butters when we were younger. When Butters turned eighteen, I was relieved that he could get out of this horrible house. But at the same time, as a consequence, he was completely abandoned by his parents who saw the opportunity to get rid of one more mouth to support now that the child was considered an adult.

Anyway, Cartman tried to teach him a thing or two about aim and weapons. Their relationship was fascinating. Cartman didn't treat him well at all, but Butters had a devotion to Eric that was simply inexplicable. It had always been like that. It wasn't anything like "passion", I couldn't find a word better than "devotion" to explain the huge eyes of a child or a dog that stared at Cartman handling the weapon. He was so eager to learn anything that Eric had to teach, as rude and impatient as he was. I think it's easy to understand when you consider that Cartman, as full of flaws as he was, didn't take shit from anybody. He was everything that Butters could never be and vice versa. Cartman wore an unnecessarily extravagant bearskin coat. He always dressed like he wanted to be a fucking Viking or something.

"Very well." Christophe said to Craig, who was holding the gun with intimacy, as if he had been born with it in his hand. The Mole slapped him twice on the back, then stepped back. Kenny was close to the two of them and carefully listened to everything Christophe explained as if it were meant for him as well. "Hit the bottle."

Craig didn't like being taught. He liked to know things. He made two attempts, hitting his target in the second. The green bottle of wine broke into a thousand pieces, the sound was almost worse than the firing itself. I was still uneasy with the loud bangs that we produced, as if someone was in there listening from the city and discovered all the terrible things we were doing. The noise itself no longer frightened me, but Tweek jumped and groaned every time someone pulled the trigger. It was painful to see how scared he was. I tried hard not to underestimate him and to believe that he was as able to fight as any of us, but in the end, no one seemed to have faith in that. Anyone who knew Tweek was worried for him.

Except maybe for Craig. He was the one who didn't seem to be particularly concerned with Tweek or to treat him as one more fragile, helpless even. Nor was he touched by Tweek's dread. There was something very beautiful in this kind of friendship. Clyde, on the contrary, was always trying to protect Tweek from everything, but not like a fierce dog or anything. He treated him gently, he was concerned about taking care of him before attacking others.

Craig wore a brown and red wool poncho, with dark brown leather gloves and a bluish green hat protecting his ears. Clyde celebrated his success by punching his arm in his cheerful clumsy way, laughing like a child.

"Very good, Tucker." The Mole encouraged, pressing his hand around Craig's shoulder. And while Craig tried to hide it, there was a small smile of pride crept in the corner of his lips.

Tweek stood right behind them, afraid of approaching weapons. He covered his ears with his cold bare hands. Christophe began to approach him and I slowly lowered the rifle as I watched them, feeling nervous. That didn't look good.

The Mole had a gun in his hand. He reached it out for Tweek to grab it. Christophe was wearing only an open military jacket over a black shirt, which made him look fucking gorgeous. He must have been terribly accustomed to the cold. I couldn't hear exactly what he said to Tweek, because he spoke quietly and I was a little away, along with Wendy and Stan. The three of us stopped to observe them, but Butters and Cartman kept entertained with their guns like they were new toys. Tweek responded loudly, screechy, retreating back and almost tripping over his own legs. He was shaking as if Christophe had hurt him, even though they hadn't even touched from where I was standing. Clyde watched everything closely, frowning. Kenny looked over his shoulder from time to time, but did not seem to want to get involved.

"No, I don't want that! Stay away from me!" Tweek shouted.

Stan hadn't shot any bottles yet, he hadn't even held a gun. He was standing next to me with his arms crossed over his chest, steam coming out of his mouth as he breathed, looking very pale. We exchanged a worried look, but I could see that he was angry with whatever was going on. Gregory and Craig continued shooting as if nothing was happening. Gregory's aim was fucking enviable. He went on to explain everything about weapons and safety to some other guys I didn't know. The sound of the shots also made it hard to listen. There was a buzz in my ears.

I left the gun on a fallen tree trunk I was supporting my foot on, watching while Christophe grabbed Tweek by the arm and yanked him. Tweek fell to the floor, mostly throwing himself, and then started to scream "no" several times, but Christophe was holding him firmly by the arm so that he could hardly move. Stan ran to them.

"You're putting all of our lives in danger when you act like a fucking out of control brat." Christophe said through gritted teeth, visibly pissed off, waving the gun in his free hand. "Get your shit together. When the sappers catch you, what do you think will happen? You think someone here will get back and save your sorry ass?! How many times will that work for you, huh?"

At this point, Tweek said nothing. He just grunting and cowered on the ground, covering his own head, keeping his eyes closed. Clyde did mention to intervene, but retreated when Stan came very close. I could see the relief in Clyde's eyes. He was fucking terrified of Christophe.

"Hey." Stan said, pulling the Mole's shoulder. "What the fuck you think you're doing?"

Christophe sharply dropped Tweek and turned to Stan like a pit bull, but to my surprise, when he realized who it was, he just stared at Stan and reached out with the hand holding the gun, like he was giving it to Stan. The two studied each other for a while, steam coming out of their mouths by the warmth of breath meeting cold air.

"You too, Marsh. Your morality won't defend you when the time comes. There's shit you need to learn."

"Oh, come on, you're just terrorizing him! That shit isn't teaching! He doesn't want any weapons near him, can't you fucking see that? Some of us don't want to kill anyone!" At this point, Stan was already shouting, gesturing with his hands covered by fingerless gray gloves.

Craig licked his upper lip and briefly watched the commotion over his shoulder, but keeping the gun on his hand. Butters, closer to us, came to literally hide behind Wendy, joining his sweaty hands out of nervousness. Cartman laughed. He made some ironic comment that I, thankfully, couldn't even listen. Tweek hugged his own knees, crawling right next to Clyde, who caressed his head as if he were a dog. It bothered me a little. Gregory sighed, taking off the hat that protected his head to rub his sweaty forehead.

"God, this is such a waste valuable time." It was all that Gregory said, as a teacher trying to discipline his students, but not really making an effort.

I walked toward them. So Christophe looked me, pointed at me with the gun; not with the barrel facing me, but it was a little intimidating anyway.

"And when one of those sons of bitches have a rifle pointed right at_ his_ face, then what? Will you still not want to kill anyone?" Christophe asked Stan, his arm still extended toward me, spitting while speaking with that heavy French accent. "Because you can choose to die as a very worthy hero, but you can't choose that for us. This shit right here, this is a group. They already fuck us up every day and I would not even blink for a second before putting a bullet in one of their heads to defend any of you fuckers. That's how it has to be. So just fucking choose which side you're on, no one here has the condition to carry dead weight."

"You're completely fucking crazy." It was all Stan said, but that did not seem to reach Christophe in any profound manner. He was probably used to hearing this kind of statement.

I gently put my hand on Stan's shoulder. Christophe had his back to us, putting the gun in the holster and then pulling out a cigarette from his pocket to light it with a match. It took him a few attempts because it was windy that day.

"Stan..." I softly called, but he turned aggressively to face me.

"No, Kyle, I'm not the one you should be using that fucking tone with. I'm not the one being fucking unreasonable."

And with that, he started to walk away. I was grateful, somehow. All those eyes on him - on us - were making me nervous. I didn't hesitate to follow him, but stopped to turn back for a moment, and there was Christophe staring right at me with his chin up, inhaling the cigarette slowly; the orange tip burning and illuminating part of his scarred face. God, he was beautiful. Disturbingly beautiful. I had time to see Gregory approach him and whisper something in his ear, but I never knew what it was that he said. What I know is that Christophe just turned his eyes to see him, holding the cigarette next to his face, looking uneasy. As if he had been exposed without realizing it. So I turned and ran to find Stanley.

"Hey! Stan, wait." I shouted from afar. He was not running. In fact, he was almost standing still. We were far enough from the others, deeper into the woods. It was so cold up there, for Christ's sake. I stopped running when I got close enough, then I closed the buttons of my jacket and straightened my scarf, breathing deeply. The cold air stung my nostrils and throat. My lungs hurt.

Stan had his back to me, one hand resting on a tree and the other covering his mouth. I didn't have to see his face to know that his eyes were closed, because that was what he did when he was upset for any reason and lost control of himself. Stan was always turning inward, always trying to analyze his own feelings and reasons before attacking others and he felt terrible when he could not contain his own anger. I wished I was a little more like him in that sense. His respect for others is incredible. That's why it scared me whenever he yelled.

"Hey." I said, putting a hand on his back. Stan turned to me like a frightened animal, touching his own forehead, brushing away the hair that fell over his mesmerizing blue eyes. "Are you alright?"

"No." He answered me with raw honesty, shrugging. He kept his lips parted, licked the top one and shook his head as if he didn't know exactly what to say. ""This shit is wrong. This is all so wrong, Kyle. And you seem so comfortable with all of this... Holding a fucking gun?! Talking about killing people?" He paused briefly, taking a step back. He stepped on a branch that broke in half. He gestured with his hand, pointing the index finger at me for a second. "I mean… Who the hell are you right now?! I don't even recognize you anymore."

I didn't know immediately what to say to him. We were both immersed in a strange silence until the sounds of shots recommenced, which startled some birds that flew away, rattling the leaves of the trees that surrounded us. I licked my lips with an uncertain expression, feeling they were a little chapped from the cold. I covered my face with my hands and massaged my temples, breathing deeply.

"Stan... This is not for attack, this is defense. You know what the sappers are capable of, I just want us to be prepared."

"And you're letting that fucking maniac terrorize your friends! That sick extremist bastard will end up hurting one of us and you simply never disagree with anything he does. What is this shit, Kyle?"

"Because maybe I think he's right!" I unwittingly shouted, opening my arms and then slamming my hands on the sides of my body, feeling defensive. "I hate to see Tweek feeling sick like that, but if he can't learn to defend himself, maybe he shouldn't even be here. I want to protect him from all of this too."

"_Protect _him? What you want is to keep on licking that asshole. You think I'm fucking blind?!"

"Oh. So that's the problem then? I don't know what we are discussing here, if it's our ideology or your jealousy of him."

He didn't answer me immediately. Stan turned aside and ran his hand under nose to dry it since it was running, sniffling abruptly. He shook his head as if he felt the need to refute me and didn't know how to exactly. I didn't see often see him like that, even having known him my whole life. I had been with Stan at the worst point of his life and it was so rare that he handled any situation with anger and aggression; It freaked me out how pissed off he was. Even in the cold, I could feel my hands starting to sweat. That subject made me nervous. I had to fill my lungs with piercing cold air a good couple of times during this silent pause he made, trying not to say anything stupid.

When he looked back at me, I could see that the anger was already rammed deep into his chest, but it still shone in the way he pointed his finger at me and controlled his voice so hard it winced.

"Look me in the eyes and say you have no feelings for him."

I frowned and looked away, my gaze running down his chest for a moment before returning to his face.

"What?"

"Look right into my eyes, Kyle." He said quietly now, approaching me. "And you tell me that you feel nothing for the Mole."

'You're… You're confusing things, Stan." I firmly said, doing exactly what he asked of me. "I believe in his method, in his passion, it's the first time since we started all of this that I really feel like we have chance to win. What moves me is... It's being a part of this giant thing we're doing here. I know it's aggressive, I know it's not how you wanted to fight, but it is efficient."

"Stop avoiding my question."

"I have respect for him. And admiration. And you're right, he changed me. His experience has changed me, being here has changed me. And how could it be any different?! Wendy was a pacifist before, but she's denying anything. This isn't how any of us would like to live."

"And that's it?"

My heart was beating so fast in my chest that I thought for a second that he was able to hear it, revealing how anxious I was. I believed what I was saying, but at some level, I knew there was something inexplicable going on. I couldn't say I felt for Christophe anything similar to what I felt for Stan, that was very explicit to me. The more I looked at the man in front of me, the more sure I was that he was the most genuinely kind person that existed on this planet, and the more crazy about him I became. Because Stan was an extension of myself. I had no desire to leave him to go and live something with Christophe; I never wanted him to think that. But there was something being born between us, something so strong and so strange, so undeniably powerful... I knew that Stan wouldn't understand if I tried to explain it, because I myself could not understand what it was. I think neither did Christophe.

"Yeah, Stan. That's it. How many more times do you want to have this conversation?"

"Alright. I believe you."

For some reason, hearing that from him made me want to cry.


	11. The Fit

May 25, 3660

And here we are. Remember Me? After that disturbing dip in Kyle's memories, perhaps it has now become a little easier to draw a parallel of what happened to these young people who are not that young anymore. The general story I'm showing to you can be divided into two main events: the President's birthday and the bomb attack. Kyle has been thinking a lot about those two occasions; and it's no surprise, since his life wouldn't be the same if either of those events had not happened. And Christophe DeLorne, the Mole, was the fire that lit the fuse for these two situations to go down the way they did. He was not to blame, that I can guarantee (although he can't fully see that on his worst and most drunken nights), but he was certainly the gas, the flame, the push that was missing. Kyle fed of his strength at that time, you may have noticed it. I could hear it in his voice when he told me about Christophe, which didn't happen all that often because, at least I believe, he felt very exposed whenever the Mole's name came up.

Anyway, my role here is not to talk about the past.

We are in the library of Gregory's house at the moment, let's focus on what really matters. He invited Kyle to help him box some books to donate, using the argument that he could choose whatever he wanted to take. I can tell that was an excuse to get him out of the daily rush and get him alone in an intimate situation. Gregory is worried about him. Their relationship is both strange and fantastic. Gregory and Kyle have always been friends, ever since they can remember, and they've always been very similar somehow, both organized and terribly smart for their own good, passionate and rational at the same time. However, both also have a huge ego that had made it hard for them to be too close, even at the time they lived together. During childhood and teenage years, they had never been the closest friends. But something happened to them, something unimaginable that united them as brothers. More than brothers, I should say. It made them something else, something that was hard to explain, but this is the relationship in Kyle's life that makes him sure he'll never be alone. We'll get into that later.

Gregory made coffee for two. Kyle is sitting on a stepladder in the giant library, three books resting on his lap, thumbing through a fourth one in his hands. How fancy it is that Gregory has a stepladder in his own personal library? That says a lot about what kind of person he is.

"Is this one going too?" He asked the owner of the house, showing him the cover of "Little Dorrit" by Charles Dickens.

Gregory looks over his little round glasses with golden temples. It's the kind of glasses grandmothers wear, with a little golden cord around the neck. He's standing next to the table full of books, his nose red from rhinitis, holding a copy of "Tom Sawyer" open in a hand. He squints to see the book Kyle is showing him and then shakes his head.

"You want it?" Gregory asks.

"No, I already have it."

"God, I love Little Dorrit."

"Of course you do, you're British."

Kyle turns around to put "Little Dorrit" back on the shelf where she belongs and grabs the other three books from his lap, holding them under the arm to get down the stairs, using the support of one hand. There is an open box on the floor right next to the ladder, accommodating the books that will be donated. Gregory takes the cup of coffee, holding it by the saucer and meets Kyle halfway to give it to him.

"Thanks for coming, Kyle. I would have taken forever to do this on my own, it was very helpful. You always are, by the way."

And it's true. They've been working together for years and it's not uncommon for Kyle to save Gregory's ass in the Chamber. Gregory is a maximum authority position in South Park, politically speaking, but everyone knows that Kyle is his right arm and he's the one who's always left with the bigger messes to clean, giving his perfectionism and efficiency. He is the only person Gregory fully trusts to do any task. Gregory is the kind of person who believes that, if you want something done right, you have to either do it yourself or ask Kyle to do it.

"No problem. You gave me the morning off anyway." Kyle responds with a teasing smile, making room on the table full of books to sit on the tip and drink his coffee.

Gregory rests a hand on the wooden surface and puts the other one on his hip, a faint smile slowly fading from his mouth, disappearing with the dimples on his face. He's wearing some ridiculous suspenders that make him look like a child. He spends some time like that, just standing, one leg crossed in front of the other, watching Kyle carefully.

"What?" Kyle asks when he realizes he's being stared at, frowning in suspicion.

Gregory opens his mouth to answer, then closes it, then opens it again. Finally, he asks:

"How is he?"

"Who?"

"You know who. Don't play stupid, it doesn't suit you."

"I'm not. I just don't understand that question coming from you. He certainly talks a lot more to you than anyone else."

"Christophe?" He asks laughing, pulling a chair across the table after going around it. He sits down and rests both feet on a pile of books, showing off his well polished shoes and prosthetic leg. "Please. I don' know things because he tells me, I know them because I know them. I just have to look at him and I'll know how he is. But he's missing, he doesn't go to the Chamber anymore."

"Yeah, I think he doesn't want to run into Stan after what happened. Which I understand, really. I think it's for the best."

Gregory wrinkles his nose in a grimace, as if he's in pain all of the sudden. His blue eyes glisten in the sunlight that invades the narrow window in front of him, on the opposite wall. He joins his hands on his stomach and lets out a thoughtful groan.

"Do you want some sugar?" He asks Kyle, who shakes his head. "Well, I don't have a doubt that this is still an open wound for him. And for Stan too, poor thing, he hardly ever leaves the office since that weird encounter. Christophe didn't tell me much about it, but I see how restless Stan is. He's avoiding see you."

"He's always avoiding to see me. Not _always_, but... You know." Kyle puts down the coffee, feeling his stomach suddenly turn. "Damn, Gregory, it's been what, fourteen years? What do you mean '_open wound_'?"

"Oh, dear. If that wound were ever closed, you just ripped off the stitches as soon as the Mole laid eyes on you again. That's why… I don't know, I worry about him."

Kyle rolls his eyes, straightening his back, not even trying to hide the discomfort.

"You're so dramatic."

"Oh, am I?" Gregory takes his feet off the pile of books and sits right over to the edge of his chair, resting his hands on the table. He straightens his red vest and supports an elbow on a book in front of him, because you can hardly see the dark wood of the table anymore. "And you're telling me that you didn't know how crazy about you he was back then?"

"It was not like that."

The fat black bird that Gregory keeps in a golden cage at the library begins to bristle its feathers, bobbing in the sun's heat, filling the room with a soft chirp. Gregory runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek while studying Kyle suspiciously, stroking the leather cover of the book in front of him. But he sees belief in those green eyes. He sigh dramatically.

"He was so in love with you, Kyle."

"Stop talking about those things." He responds quickly and gets up, forgetting the coffee, turning back to the stepladder. "This issue is dead and buried."

"I'm not suggesting you dig it up, I'm just worried about him. With all due respect, I can not understand what he's doing in your house. I have invited him to come stay with me, but he doesn't want it. And when your name comes up, something happens in his eyes... He tries to hide it, but I see it."

"What, Gregory?" He asks impatiently. "What do you see?"

But the blonde is collected. He licks his lips, holding his breath for a while and then gets up too, massaging the part of his thigh that is still made of flesh, where he had his leg amputated several years ago. Sometimes it hurts a little, as if the muscles are being pulled.

"Do you want to take Catcher in the Rye?" He asks, holding the book in his hand. That's his answer. Cause he knows Kyle's limits better than Kyle himself. "I never liked Salinger all that much. If you don't want it, I'll put it in the donation box."

And so, to Kyle's relief, the subject dies. For now.

Christophe is sitting on the balcony and it's night. Some fireflies as green as the moon roam around the yard. The view of Kyle's home in the mountain is the most fucking beautiful thing this town has to offer. The city seems so small, an untouchable carpet of light below them. He smokes a straw cigarette, as usual, leaning forward from time to time to spit on a tin can beside him, because the taste is tremendously strong even for his experienced mouth.

Kyle comes from inside the house. He looks so beautiful tonight. There is nothing special about it; his red hair is a bit messy, he's wearing a beige and brown thin wool sweater with a wide collar that exposes his naked collarbones. It's a little colder on the mountain than it is down there, but the smooth spring breeze feels nice. What's most beautiful about him today is the glow of his soft skin, no dark circles denouncing the lack of sleep. He looks healthy and happy. If you ask me, he has slept better with Christophe on the house. He has slept better knowing that the Mole is safe and sound. Kyle has had dreadful nightmares about him for the last god knows how many years, even before he started to believe that Christophe was dead.

I can see in the Mole's eyes that he also sees this comfortable beauty in Kyle, not particularly tidy, but real. He doesn't quite smile, but there's this spark in his eyes of someone who likes what he sees. It feels like Christophe could just look at him until the day he died, then he'd die a happy man.

Kyle brings with him two glasses of rum with ice. He gives one of them to Christophe and sits next to him, facing the sleeping city.

"_Merci_." The Mole thanks, taking a long sip. I'm not kidding, he even moans with the burning liquid running down his throat. When he finishes the required sip, he breathes in deeply, satisfied. "Damn, this shit is good."

"Did you actually think I would serve you something shitty?"

"Yeah."

Kyle laughed for his simplistic honesty, because he knows that Christophe isn't joking. A comfortable silence is established between them. These two never needed words to fill the void. Kyle clears his throat and licks his lips, also sipping the rum. It's his second glass of the night.

"You're very quiet today." He said, touching Christophe's exposed arm, because his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows. "Thinking about something?"

He hesitates a little to respond, taking an unhurried drag of his cigarette.

"Tweek, actually."

"Tweek?" Kyle frowns. "Huh. That's curious." He takes a pause, and it's a long one, unsure of whether this is an issue worth digging up or not. "What about him?"

"Nothing. I was just remembering him. His way of looking." Christophe closes his eyes as he takes a deep drag, trying to numb himself, then he breathes quietly, the smoke coming out from his lips and nostrils. "I misjudge him."

"You also made him a hero."

Christophe laughs somewhat bitterly, scratching behind his head in a lazy move. He looks slightly stoned and Kyle ponders for a moment if there is something other than tobacco in his cigarette. Probably the tip of some relaxing herb. Kyle has noticed that he uses anesthetic substances a lot more than he used to; he always drank a lot, but he was also a man on alert at all times and he needed all his senses working at every moment. Now, he seems to be trying to run away from something. Kyle also noted that he hardly ever sleeps. Every time Kyle wakes up in the middle of the night, he finds Christophe fully awake, smoking or reading or anything like that.

"I didn't make him anything. Tweek grew by himself. He began to see things for what they were."

"You never take credit for anything, but whenever something goes wrong, you always think it's your fault."

Christophe peeks at him with the corner of his eye, looking a bit angry. He holds the cigarette too close to his own face.

"I don't blame myself for what happened to him. I'm not that egocentric." He pauses to take a monstrous sip of his rum, supporting the glass over his crossed leg. He faces the city lights, his gaze looking vague and distant, but finally says. "Of course I wish I could have done something. Not only for Tweek."

"But how could you?" Kyle asks, adjusting his reading glasses he has forgotten to take off. He finally turns sideways in his chair to face him head on, but Christophe doesn't take his eyes off the city. Kyle takes a long pause, his eyes filling with pain. He rubs his face beneath the glasses and drink some more. "God, what a fucking day that was."

He's talking about the President's birthday, the first major intervention of resistance in South Park. The memory itself gives him goose bumps. With a sigh, Kyle continues:

"I thought you were going to die, Mole. I really did."

It's so hard for him to say this out loud. It's such a vivid scar in his soul, something that will always be a part of him because that's when Kyle started to become who he is today. That's when both of them came to their limit.

He uses the tin can as an ashtray too. Christophe holds it for a while, facing the bottom of the can in silence for a long time.

"Me too." He casually replies, blowing smoke into the air.

Again they fall into silence, but now there's some tension here. They're no longer in each other's company, because Kyle is deep in a memory of his own. I can see everything. Inside his mind, there is a long trail of fresh blood on a filthy floor, Christophe's limp body at the end of this path, in a puddle of viscous fluid that oozes from his gunshot wound. The sounds are stunning. Those were the sounds that plagued Kyle's sleep several times, those cries in the streets and machine guns, sappers, people running outside, chaos, storm. And was Kyle also smeared on the Mole's blood, also full of scratches and cuts, his forehead bleeding, his face dirty with tears earth, but he had no time to cry or to clean himself up because the only thought was in stop that damn blood that wouldn't stop coming. "_Don't you dare to close your eyes, you son of a bitch, I'll hunt you down in hell if you leave me_," Kyle remembers yelling, but Christophe could no longer hear anything.

That is one hell of a story. I'll let Kyle tell you. But that's not our focus right now.

"You know that..." Kyle mutters with a weak voice. "I've had my good share of shitty moments, you know. But that was the moment my life when I felt the most terrified." There is a long pause as if he's waiting for Christophe to say something, but he just spits in the can and puts off the cigarette in it, then turns his gaze to Kyle silently. Kyle then continues. "It was different. You know? I had so many regrets... And I… Being young and stupid, I saw you as this unstoppable force of nature that could overcome anything. It was like… Only at that moment I found out that you were also made of flesh like everyone else." He took another pause, this time for a sip of rum, his glass almost empty. He already feels a little drunk. "I loved you so much, Christophe. Seeing you that fragile... It only made me want you more. I also dreaded it. And I dreaded everything we wouldn't be able to experience if you died. At that moment, it was like... Like I would be alone forever if you disappear."

The Mole leans back in the chair and lets his skin absorb the words as if they were a strong dose of alcohol. The silence begins to leave Kyle nervous, but before he can react, Christophe straightens the leg that had been crossed and takes a deep breath.

"You kept me alive."

It almost sounds like an accusation. He doesn't speak aggressively, nor angry, but still it sounds like something that Kyle should not have done. And I can see that Kyle doesn't understand exactly what he means by that. Christophe rummages ice in his glass of rum and finish it by slamming it on the wooden table that exists between their chairs.

"Once again." The Mole adds.

Kyle takes off his glasses, feeling a little dizzy. He presses his palms over his eyes and takes a deep breath, trembling, still completely immersed in those memories he's been running away from for over a decade.

"And everything that came after that..." Kyle murmurs, rubbing his temples. "Damn, I did everything wrong."

There is sorrow... Or rather, there was a strong amount of sorrow between them after the President's birthday. But Christophe has never been what one could call _verbal_; He never talked about his feelings. Kyle doesn't know to what extent those wounds are still open. Christophe frowns for a moment and carefully looks back at him.

"Do you still think about it?" He asks.

"_About it_", it's what he says. "_About us_," it's what he means. He throws that thought in the air, dubiously on purpose, something he doesn't do very often. He's a fairly binary man who prefers to say what he means. But even so he leaves it open, perhaps with kind intentions, for Kyle to understand it how he pleases, giving him the chance to be evasive if that's what he wants. From where I I see things without the weight of the flesh, it's so easy to see how Christophe tries to protect him and doesn't know how to express that.

"Of course I do." Kyle says without hesitation. "Don't you?"

This catches him by surprise. Christophe diverts his gaze, releasing the air from the lungs like a panting dog. He is about to stand up, but stays put. He seems a bit cornered.

"Well, I'm here, aren't I? Weren't you the one who wanted me to go stay somewhere else so we wouldn't feed this shit up?"

"Yeah, that's what I wanted, but you didn't go." Kyle responds, his tone serious at first, but then he can't help but smile at the end of the sentence when he realizes how stupid he sounds.

Christophe takes about two seconds to start chuckling It's a weak laugh, shaking his head, confused but satisfied. Shortly after, the chuckle turns into an actual laugh. Kyle hits him on the arm, unable to stop smiling.

Own. That's really cute.

"I'm serious!" Kyle yells, his head thrown back, sounding anything but serious. "It's hard not to remember everything when you're here. It's impossible, actually." He takes a quiet, thoughtful little time to stare at the wood boards of his porch floor. "You… You just left. And I stood here holding on to this shit by myself."

Christophe goes from that scornful laughter to a slightly annoyed expression. He takes his lighter from the pocket and starts to play with it, lighting the fighter a couple of times because he's nervous and he needs to do something with his hands.

"And what the fuck did you want me to do, Kyle?" He accusingly asks all of the sudden. "I didn't run away. You didn't go to Europe with me because you didn't want to."

He gets up from his chair as he finishes speaking, taking a few steps on the porch, scratching his neck with his free hand.

"That is not true."

Kyle sounds truly hurt now.

"It is. It fucking is."

"I couldn't go! You know damn well that I couldn't!" Kyle gets up and approaches him, gesturing, a little defensive. Christophe turns to him with his hands on hips and his chin up, in a confronting position. Not the it was necessary, giving the fact that he's twice Kyle's size.

"Yeah. I know. I know and I never fucking asked you for anything different. I never asked you for something you didn't have to give." He points his finger at Kyle's face, pressing the lighter in his hand, talking in the strongest French accent. "But then what the fuck did you expect from me?! You were the one who rejected me for years. _You_. What, did you want me to behave like a little puppy running after you like..."

He stops talking, which is very good if you want to know. Because Kyle is so ready to put a hole on his face if he decides to continue.

"Like Stan? Is that what you were going to say?"

"I didn't..."

"How fucking dare you…? How can you even say that?! Well, you know what? At least Stan was never afraid to tell me he loved me."

Christophe nervously licks his lips and takes a step back. They are very close, these two, and this has become too stifling for him.

"I've told you." The Mole shrugs like there's nothing else he can do. He sounds so fragile right now. "Maybe not in your time, maybe not in the way you wanted me to, but I've said it. And it didn't change shit. So don't blame this on me, don't talk like you were left behind."

"You think I wouldn't have gone with you?! But I... Damn it, Christophe. I would have never forgiven myself."

"So why the fuck are we are still arguing about this?" He asks very tiredly. "There's nothing to be done here. You couldn't go, I couldn't stay. It's over. If there ever was a chance, we lost it."

There is a silent moment between them. The fireflies continue dancing, the wind is weak and it stirs the Mole's hair up. Kyle is protected by his body and the wind barely touches him. His eyes look so sad. Those words were everything in the world he did not want to hear from Christophe's mouth, even though he has said something very similar to Gregory that same morning. He breathes in, heavy and confused, his dizziness getting worse; Kyle covers his eyes and tries to hide the painful expression. He feels like he's been shot.

"This is why I was afraid that you stayed here. Because I knew this would happen eventually."

Christophe puts the lighter back in his pocket and passes Kyle to go back inside the house, but he then stops, his hand on the doorframe, thoughtfully pressing his tongue inside his cheek. Kyle turns toward him, his shoulders tense and his head slightly thrown back, eyes filled with sadness. Christophe stares back. He takes two indecisive steps, leaving Kyle attentive, prepared for a new confrontation.

But Christophe walks toward him, the short distance between Kyle and the door, passing one of his strong arms around Kyle's waist to pull his body against him approaches his face so quickly that Kyle can't fully understand what's going on, he just feels both his feet almost leaving the ground. He can also feel the heat, that breath of rum and smoke mixed with the natural smell of that body, that hair. Christophe's eyes so close and so aggressive they almost shoot him, bright like a wolf's.

"This right here, this is what you knew would happen." He mutters through his teeth, taking Kyle so tightly in the embrace, one hand on his back and the other buried in his red hair, breathing heavy. Their lips are so close, the bodies, warm of alcohol and lust and anger against that cold air. "_This right here _is what you're afraid of."

And then he mentions to release him like he was just trying to prove a point. He simply wanted to remind him of the adrenaline, the fire that spreads with any touch between them, how that fire is still very much alive. But Christophe's hands don't even leave Kyle's body. One minute he relieves his grip, but on the other, he grabs him forcefully again, using the hand on his head to keep their faces close like there's some kind of internal battle taking place. Kyle's knees are trembling and he doesn't react, but his green eyes sparkle.

"Fucking damn it, Kyle." He says, sounding so breathless and out of himself, in a tone of one who can't take it any longer, one who has made a decision and doesn't give a shit about the consequences.

And he kisses Kyle, hungrily and immediately, before he has the chance to change his mind.

Like he should have done years ago. But no one asked for my opinion.


	12. The Nerve

November 01, 3644

The next step was to learn how to work with our fists, which Gregory had told me he thought to be more important than knowing how to shoot. When we were at home, we hardly ever talked about something else. We had never been too close, but it was so good to have his company in the subsequent days because Stan was still pissed at me. Not the kind of pissed that would make him go sleep on the couch or anything. He didn't ignore me when I spoke to him, and looking from outside, one might never see there was something wrong. But I knew him well. When a caring person like Stan changes, it's very noticeable. So when Kenny wasn't hanging out in our apartment, which was pretty much every day, it was nice to have someone else's company to break the ice. Gregory and I started cooking together. He tried to ask me how things were between me and Stanley, but then again, he was too elegant to be this invasive, so he was content with a simple "alright". He didn't call me out for lying, just put his hand on my shoulder and smiled before asking me to pass the eggs.

The television was turned on all day on the news. There was this wave of terrorism upon the Monarchs growing daily, sensationalist news alerting the population on how dangerous and horrible they were, but it is also true that their tactics were becoming increasingly violent. They imploded empty buildings in large cities and sometimes that got bystanders killed because those attacks happened in the middle of a normal day in the rich centers. No one knew how they could break into spaces designated to the nobility. Terrance and Phillip were deified by Monarchs and therefore the most dangerous faces sought in the entire country. Many rumors began to run; some said that they were already dead but the group concealed that information because they needed heroic figures to motivate the rebels, others said they had already fled to Africa or Asia, where the US radar would not reach them. My favorite rumor was that they didn't even exist, but that the group needed a (or two) Messiah. Even within the organization, we knew very little about them.

Kenny spray painted their huge faces at the central square of South Park in the middle of the night. It was a beautiful art in blue and red contrasting with the white on the floor, such a beautiful thing. Kenny didn't believe in the idolatry itself, but neither did Terrance and Phillip. The important thing was to carry the message. And their faces did just that.

Oh, and we carried it very well. Kenny's graffiti, the little informative newspapers, it all began to leave the people restless. Security was redoubled. The sappers were instructed to shoot the legs of anyone who was caught walking on the street outside the curfew. Kenny saw the news reporting his graffiti as if they were atrocities, but the information of "shooting anyone" was given in such a casual tone, only as a safety measure, and that made him laugh. His art was shocking more people than sappers killing kids.

Gregory seemed increasingly worried. He raised the possibility of us having to leave South Park sooner than we expected. I confess that I didn't take this possibility as seriously as I should have back then.

My mother, on the other hand, was also mad with concern by the fact that this filthy race had spotted our little town. For her, the sappers were too soft by shooting rebels on the leg. She believed they should shoot right in the face of whoever was on the street outside the proper hour, since that couldn't be the habit of a good citizen. Yes, my mother. Poor thing. She had no idea how ironic it was to tell me that.

But my mother is a matter for later. I had developed, at that time, an absurd resistance to the cries of my mother. God, how I fucking resented that woman.

In fact, resentment was something that wouldn't leave my flesh those days. So when we started training physical fights, it was very satisfying to have somewhere to unload my many heavy feelings without actually hurting anyone. Gregory arranged an isolated shed in the woods, a place that was used as storage for a candy shop that went bankrupt and the place had been abandoned. I had low lighting and was discreet enough for us to meet in small groups. We turned that into a ritualistic process. We got together in the first morning hours, as soon as the curfew ended. We skipped classes every other day, trying to reconcile this double life, but it was very obvious that neither of us was managing to meet the social schedule of the profession that we had been assigned to. It was a matter of time until it was untenable to pretend that we were ordinary citizens. For now, we tried.

It was a particularly rainy day, one of those when the humidity goes underneath your clothing and it's so difficult to get warm. I was covered in sweat by training, had already thrown the shirt aside, which left my chest completely exposed and my skin cold. Kenny always had an extraordinary amount of energy, the fucker was so fast and it was like trying to weary a six year old. But he had a very weak defense. It took me a few days to completely let go of the fear I'd actually punch him. There were a lot of people in the shed that morning, alternating between doubles or going at it with the punching bags that, God knows how, Gregory and Christophe had gotten for us to train with. They were only old bags full of sand, really, but it was better than nothing. Stan preferred to train with those rather than with real human beings. I didn't blame him for that.

It was almost strange to see him expressing so much aggressiveness. Something curious happened that day. I always kept an eye on Kenny and the other one on Stan, who punched the hanging punching bag time and time again, about to hurt his own fists. Kenny realized that I was distracted, but did nothing but offer me a look full of concern, taking the sweaty blond hair off his face.

I couldn't imagine Stan purposely hurting another human being. It did not make any sense, even though deep inside I was relieved. It was especially painful when I tried to talk to him the first time I saw him taking all of his frustrations out on the punching bag. I asked if he was okay. He said: "_I __told you I__ would do things your way, __didn't__ I? __Isn't__that __how it works now?_"

I knew he was hurt and did not put up a fight in front of everyone. I let him do his own therapy; physical exertion was good for me, maybe it was good for him too.

Kenny asked for a five-minute break to drink water. His training was almost playful, or maybe he was just trying to make me feel better with that big smile of his. Anyway, I pulled away for a while to go near the bench where Clyde and Craig were sitting on and talking, next to a box full of water bottles. Clyde immediately caught one for me when he realized I was approaching, interrupting whatever topic they were discussing.

"Hey." I said with a faint smile on my lips, wiping the sweat from my forehead using the back of my hand.

"We've been here rooting for you to kick McCormick's scrawny ass." Clyde replied with his friendly grin, giving me a playful little punch on the shoulder. "You're getting good at this."

I just smiled, unscrewing the bottle's cap to pour water on my mouth with ease, closing my eyes in satisfaction. When I finished drinking it, I ran the back of my hand over my lips and put a foot on the bench, staring at the two for a moment, snuffling. Craig had his arms crossed in front of his chest, legs wide open, and didn't look sweaty or tired like most people in that shed. I could feel the excessive smell of Clyde's invading my nostrils without permission.

"Listen." I said almost without thinking, bringing the bottle closer to my lips again, but not drinking from it. I spoke looking directly at Clyde, as Craig usually ignored me. "How's Tweek?"

"Tweek? Why, because of the thing with Mole?"

I nodded and took another sip of cold water.

"Was he alright after that?"

"Oh, man, I dunno. Tweek is actually pretty resilient, you know? I don't think most people give him the credit he deserves. It may not look like it, but he has some nerves of steel. He just... He really doesn't like guns. And the Mole kinda freaks him out." Clyde paused for a moment, rubbing his knee. "But then again, I guess he freaks everyone out a little. The guy is super strong and all, but he's kind of fucked up in the head, don't you think?"

"But that's how it has to be, man." Craig muttered before I could answer. "That's how Tweek works, he even decided to come train shot with us after the Mole gave him that panic attack. He may not like the guy, but fuck it, everybody's here doing their jobs."

"Even Stan." Clyde observed, supporting the elbow on his thigh and resting his chin on his palm. "I was really happy to see him here. I thought he might give up."

"Yeah..." I quickly turned around to look in Stan's direction again, but he was still completely focused on the punching bag. "So are you guys okay? I mean... I don't know, it was really hard seeing Tweek that way, I don't want to think that we're terrorizing each other here."

"Relax. Tweek is no parameter, he handles things differently." Suddenly, Clyde looked worried. "You didn't come to talk about him because you're doubting his ability or anything, right?"

"What?" I frowned. "No. Of course not. Where did you get that from?"

Craig shrugged and intervened before Clyde could even open his mouth:

"Everyone knows that you and the Mole are very close. He must have said something like that to you, right?"

"Craig." Clyde said with an almost embarrassed smile, licking his lips and rubbing his face for a moment. But his tone was one of '_we don't talk about that in front of him, please, only behind his back'_.

I didn't know if there was a deliberate malice in Craig's words or not, but that hardly mattered, because soon I realized that the two were staring at something behind me with too much interest. When I turned around, there it was. Exactly what I had imagined.

Christophe, who had more experience than most of us in terms of wrestling, went from person to person when he had the patience to correct some issues. Until then, he had been holding the bag for Red to beat, teaching her about spots in the body that would bring down any man in seconds if hit the right way. He wasn't very patient to explain anything and never spent too much time focused on the same person. What I saw as I turned around was Christophe holding the bag Stan had been hitting, one arm wrapped around the bag as he told Stan to separate his legs a little further so he would have more of a base to hold the impact. I couldn't hear exactly what the dialogue was between the two, but still, I was close enough to get the idea.

Before Christophe had the chance to put himself in the right position to hold the bag, Stan gave it such a loud and angry punch that it hit Christophe in the stomach right through the bag, pushing him back. He almost lost his balance, clearly unarmed. He was not expecting that. I immediately left the bottle on the bench and took a few steps toward the two, but they were unaware of my presence.

I could see how Christophe studied Stan's defiant expression, more curious than anything. And I could hardly recognize that animalistic shine that took over Stan's eyes. An amused smile came to be outlined in Christophe's lips, along with a very weak incredulous laugh.

"Like that?" He asked the Mole, running his tongue over his top lip. "Was that strong enough for you?"

"I see." Christophe replied, abruptly letting go of the punching bag, taking two steps forward to advance in Stan's direction, albeit slowly. Stan did not retreat, not even one step. On the contrary, he further raised his chin. "You want to train with something that moves, huh?"

"I'll train with him!" I shouted, rushing to get closer to the them.

At the same time, Kenny also screamed from the other side, raising his arm to wave in a gesture that would get the Mole's attention.

"Hey dude, come here a minute! I got some questions for you."

Thank God for Kenny McCormick.

To my relief, after a few seconds of the two of them keeping their gazes locked on one another, preserving a violent tension between the bodies, Christophe took two steps back. Like an animal that can't turn its back on a predator, cautiously stepping away. Finally, he answered Kenny's call, moving away as quickly as I got closer. There was that moment… A moment when we passed by each other and our eyes never met, but my shoulder lightly brushed against his and I felt every single hair of my body standing up.

Ignoring any chance to think about it at the time, I touched Stan's shoulder with more anxiety than planned. He retreated to the touch as if I had just burned him, visibly pissed at me, more than with the situation itself. He clenched his fists before turning to grab the punching bag to make it stop swinging, ignoring my presence.

"Why the hell are you acting like that?!" I asked in a whisper voice, briefly looking around to get a sense of how many eyes were watching us. Those who were looking diverted their stare immediately. "What have I done to make you so angry?"

"Nothing, Kyle!" He said in a much louder voice, raising his hands in a gesture of indifference. He wore black fingerless gloves that contrasted with his pale skin and the black tank top that covered his torso. "Nothing. Isn't that what you wanted? An ignorant aggressive asshole who punches before thinking?! Isn't that what you're into now?"

I had no idea what to say.

I stood there motionless with my lips parted, my eyes full of judgment and defense, shaking my head, feeling a bit lost. He didn't exactly scream in my face, but he spat out those words with so much resentment between his teeth, all the other sounds of the shed gone to my ears. Only the two of us existed there. The two of us and that damn problem that could no longer be ignored. My heart was beating so hard in my chest that I could feel it burning in my ears.

"Stan..." It was all that came out of my mouth. I didn't mean to sound so patronizing, so superior, as if I were talking to an angry child. I didn't want to cause him any bad feelings of inferiority, especially now. I was honestly trying to be nothing but kind, and yet I could see it in his eyes that anything I say right now would be the wrong thing.

"Please." He spoke quietly, breathing deeply. He slowly massaged his temples, slightly lowering his head. "Just... Please. Let's not talk about it now."

I kept standing there, feeling somewhat stupid. I didn't understand what he was waiting for. He wasn't looking at me. I began to slowly step back, nodding my head, even though he couldn't see me. I didn't know how to deal with the pain that lived in his eyes, I couldn't deal with the fact that it was my fault. I began to feel dizzy, because it forced me to think about things I didn't want to.

What I shared with Stan was put in this untouchable pedestal and that was the way I liked to think about our relationship. But when he began to act as if there was something wrong... And was there? Was it really?

As I was walking to the shed door, my eyes met the Mole. That's the exact same look we shared the very day we met, and it had happened this way so many times; we just looked at each other in the middle of a room full of people because they never approached each other in front of others. And when we were alone, everything was different. The things he told me, the fire of struggle and resistance he urged in me, and he made me discover things about myself that I didn't even know existed. Why was this a threat? It wasn't like I thought about actually touching him... Or ...

I pushed open the shed's heavy door and almost trotted across the lawn, my torso weighing forward until I fell with both hands on the ground to support my own body. My fingers sank into the wet soil, icy drops of rain still fell and the wind was biting at my exposed skin, rainwater mixing with my hot sweat. I breathed like a slaughtered dog. My eyes stung but no tears came. And my mind was flooded with unclean thoughts, so filthy that I tried to push them to the most isolated confines of my mind for months, and now they emerged with violence. Christophe's sweaty fighting body, his huge hands with calloused fingers capable of so much damage, his defined muscles and that tanned skin, those fucking wife beaters he always wore exposing those strong arms, his angry or thoughtful grunts, that ever so serious voice of his, those hazel eyes that didn't seem human, always undressing me, always violating me. The smell of musk and rum on his skin and his breath, the smell of cigarette smoke, those damn yellowed teeth of that smile that never appeared, but when it did... God, when it did, it fucked up my stomach in ways I didn't even know to be possible. And I wanted so badly to tear down the wall that he imposed on the rest of the world, I wanted to know more about that body and find out how he kissed, how he loved. It ate me alive, the desire to find out if Christophe fucked the same way fought, if it was that intense and aggressive or if he could get rid of his armor and become one with another person... And how I wanted, shit, how I wanted to be that person.

"Kyle." I heard a distant voice calling me, a voice so familiar.

I turned to see Stan's figure getting closer, still sweaty, his cheeks flushed from the cold. He knelt beside me, looking a little uncertain, not knowing where to put his hand. But finally he touched me on the cheek, sliding the back of his fingers across my skin.

And all my sordid thoughts dismantled little by little, leaving only a terrible pain in my stomach. I realized that my cock had even stiffen a bit, and throbbed agonized inside the underwear. I took a deep breath. I sat on my own legs, my knees bent, and rubbed my face with hands dirty with earth. We were both under the rain, poorly dressed, exposed to the wind. Fresh air filled my lungs and relieved my gastric discomfort.

"I didn't mean to..." Stan told me. "I'm sorry, I've been thinking about some really ugly shit lately."

"Don't apologize." I whispered softly in response, blinking slowly to scare away the accumulation of raindrops on my eyelashes. I wasn't sure if I was crying or not.

"No, but I acted like a jerk. He didn't do anything, he wasn't even looking at you... But my mind is filled with shit. I don't want to make you suffer because of my stupid jealousy. I just need some time... You know, to get used to it all. And to know him, perhaps." Stan paused, feeling that he was running over his own words. He reached his hand out to get my hair off my face. "Come, let's get out of the rain."

"Stan..." I whispered weakly, licking my lips and feeling the taste of rain. I hadn't realize until then, but I was shivering. I kept my gaze locked on him, those immensely kind blue eyes. I approached my body little by little, smiling tearfully as I wrapped my arms around his neck. I buried my face in the curve of his bare neck, inhaling his sweet scent, shutting my eyelids for a moment. "I really don't deserve you."

"Don't talk bullshit." He whispered confidently, kissing the top of my head, stroking my back. I needed that. I needed his heat, I needed to be sure that we were still us. "It'll be okay, Kyle. There are things much bigger us right going on right now... I will never leave you alone."


	13. The Clash

May 25, 3660

Perhaps you won't be able to understand how I can narrate the subsequent scenes as comfortably as I intend to, because I can imagine that you are a flesh being, capable of silly feelings such as shame. There is nothing wrong with that. But as close to Kyle as I've been in life - and I was indeed - I don't feel embarrassed at all by watching him ride Christophe's cock right now. Because I'm dead. That kind of thing doesn't matter to me anymore.

I've always wondered how it would be when these two finally clashed at each other, because they've been desiring this for such a long time and there was so many expectations involved that perhaps the reality could be very disappointing. I had this curiosity. There is a feeling that only intensifies when you die, curiosity. You see everything and still want to see more. So I wondered if Kyle truly wanted Christophe back then or if he just wanted the idea that he made of the Mole and vice versa. Of course, looking back at it now, it's a stupid question. Kyle went to some extreme extensions for wanting this man so much and not being able to have him. Maybe that's why I can see that Kyle wanted so badly to believe, until a few moments ago, that their time had passed. If he only knew how wrong he was.

I guess, since we're here, I should tell you about the first kiss. God, that was one fucking good kiss. I mean, what do I know? I wasn't the one doing it. But from my perspective, Christophe kissed him so desperately that he could have swollen Kyle if he tried to. He went for every ounce of him, every bit he couldn't have for years, every part of that body that haunted him ever since they met. It wasn't just a kiss with lips and tongue, it involved their entire bodies and everything they had, everything they were. And as deep as it was, it also had such a slow pace because they wanted to absorb and live every second of it, discovering the smells and the tastes, the textures and temperatures. It was also wet. Very wet. Damn, what a good kiss.

Anyway, what happened after that hungry kiss on the porch was that Christophe started to push him into the house, but not before pressing him against the wall next to the door to get his hands inside Kyle's clothes, taking his feet off the ground. It was such a violent kiss that Christophe's stubble left red marks all over the skin around Kyle's mouth, just like he left marks all over every little inch of naked flesh that Christophe could reach with his hands, digging his fingers in Kyle's waist and on his back. Kyle tried to say some sane and useless thing about this not being the best idea, that they shouldn't do this, but Christophe's tongue in his mouth soon made him change his mind.

That kiss was intense as fuck, leaving them sweaty very quickly, with hair sticking to the face, their bodies so close that it's hard to know where one begins and the other one ends, but even so, it wasn't aggressive. I thought Christophe would be more violent in his way of kissing, to be perfectly honest. And so did Kyle. Maybe the Christophe I personally knew how many years ago, when I was still alive, that Christophe who was young and angry, maybe he did kiss violently. But that Christophe is now a grown man with more darkness within him, a much more injured man who has learned not to solve everything with his fists, a man who's able to hold someone in his arms with genuine affection. It was not a gentle kiss either, it wasn't subtle, but it was strong and slow, very well enjoyed, like they needed to memorize every bit of the other. Christophe stopped kissing him for a second to separate their lips with a couple inches, just enough so that the two could see each other so very closely, panting, feeling the hot breath on their faces, their smell and sweat mixing together.

Watching this scene starts to make me more sensitive. How long have these two human beings desired each other? Years. Fucking year, literally. Just the gentle touch of Christophe's coarse fingers in the back of Kyle's head was enough for him to wince, eyes closed. Because he has dreamed of that touch so many times.

People underestimate the power of human touch, you know? It's curious. Sex is so overvalued that it's often made in a pathetic empty way, simulating a feeling that isn't even there because everything is done in a hurry, in despair. I know these thoughts are passing through Christophe's mind, because he's from another culture. He smiles as he watches Kyle's desperation to have more of his mouth, but Christophe holds his head in place, his lips out of reach just to tease him, simply staring at Kyle with so much affection, shaking his head as he considers that Americans don't know how to kiss. And he wants to tell Kyle he should have done this so long ago, he should have kissed him the way he deserved to be kissed when they were still young, but he doesn't say that. And I think it's for the best that he didn't.

He doesn't want to bring up anything that will make Kyle think of Stan right now.

Instead, he just chuckles and whispers. "Easy there."

This all happened about fifteen minutes ago. And between then and now, these two men climbed the ladder with their fingers entangled, Christophe passing an arm around Kyle's torso to keep him as close as possible, both rubbing their noses as they kiss, inhaling each other's smell, sharing the taste of saliva, kissing more calmly than they did before.

Now, Christophe lies on his back in the middle of Kyle's bed, with bent knees and dilated pupils, the buttons of his shirt all open, his pants and underwear thrown wherever on the bedroom floor. His hands slowly run up the sides of Kyle's body, back and forth with no hurry, exploring the soft texture of his pale skin, rapt with the sensation. Christophe has his lips slightly parted and there's a bite mark on the bottom one that was certainly Kyle's fault. He almost smiles, but the corners of his lips don't go high enough to call it that. And Kyle has Christophe's hard cock all the way inside his body, which makes every hair on his bare skin bristle, heavy breathing, his shoulders leaning slightly forward. He moans in this muffled voice, still uncertain whether it hurts or feels good because, just like he has always fantasized while masturbating in the shower when he was younger, Christophe's cock is way too thick to go in all at once and Kyle takes a while to get used to the pressure, moaning in a thin voice, almost not realizing that there are noises coming out of his mouth. He has both hands pressed flat on the man's chest, relieved that Christophe holds him with those strong hands, digging the bitten fingernail on his soft skin, giving him a sense of security. Kyle hasn't known what that feels like for a long time.

"You feel so good..." Kyle tells him.

It's all so overwhelming that Kyle can not move immediately. He has a hard time keeping his eyes open. His eyelids only separate when Christophe's trembling hand touches his face. Kyle's iris look even greener than usual, even under the dim lamplight that was already on when they entered the room. At this very moment, Christophe swears that one day the green of these eyes will be the death of him. Perhaps that's the only way Christophe can see as loving another person. He leans on one of his elbows to lift his body a little, sitting awkwardly, fitting underneath Kyle's weight, boosting up his torso to lay his cheek against Kyle's bare chest. Kyle lets out a hoarse cry and starts taking off Christophe's shirt to reveal those arms Kyle has always been so deeply in love with, but the movement is interrupted when Christophe looks up to dip his face in the curve of Kyle's neck, devouring his skin, and all of this is too much for Kyle to take. The burning between his ass cheeks, the throbbing feeling of the man inside him, little by little opening space between his inner walls, the warmth of his breath on his sensitive neck skin, all mixed up with hot saliva and that coarse beard of his... Kyle holds firmly on Christophe's shoulders and squints, feeling tears starting to sprout.

"God, I fucking love you…" Christophe whispers softly, like the softest thing he's ever said, his voice so muffled that Kyle hardly understands what he's saying. He frees one of his arms from the sleeve and takes that hand to Kyle's bare back, easily sliding his palm over the length of his sweaty skin, pressing Kyle's body against his, sucking the flesh just below his ear before repeating it. "I love you so much..."

Kyle had hugged his neck with all the strength he had in his arms as soon as Christophe raised his torso, and after hearing those words that felt so surreal, he takes his fingers to Christophe's jaw so they'll face each other. Kyle stares at him for a brief moment with teary eyes, breathing in, and then clashes their lips in a desperate kiss, as if Christophe were to suddenly disappear. He takes a hand to the back of Christophe's head and holds a lock of brown of hair between his fingers, handling it so that he'll lay his head to the side for the kiss to better fit, giving him more room to explore the other's tongue, sucking on his lips and touching their teeth by accident.

Shortly after, Christophe leans forward to push Kyle back on the bed and lies on top of him without ever taking his dick off, gaining freedom for his hip to dictate the pace that he'll slide in and out of him, but for a few seconds, he doesn't move a single inch. He settles on top of Kyle, lifting one of his legs with his free hand, using the other one to support his own weight, but lowering his torso just enough to keep their faces very close. They look at each other the whole time.

"Am I hurting you?" Christophe asks softly, his lips almost touching Kyle's.

He replies shaking his head no, his heavy eyelids almost closing, an ecstatic expression taking over his face. Everything he feels now seems in raw flesh.

"God, no. Don't slow down."

Christophe invades his body harder, more in control and a lot faster, making him arch his back and breathless scream. Christophe hides his face in the curve between Kyle's shoulder and neck, tenderly biting the flesh in that area, enough to hold back a muffled groan. Both of them are already covered in sweat and the whole room looks so hot despite the open window that lets in a cool breeze lifting up the white curtains with the blow of wind.

The shock of their bodies is perfectly audible. On each thrust, Christophe presses Kyle's body against the mattress, which makes Kyle tighten his legs around his hip even more, both hands exploring every inch of the man's broad back. Christophe's weight over him makes it so hard for Kyle to breathe, which can also be attributed to the physical exhaustion of corresponding to the rhythmic movement that becomes more anxious now that he's closer. They both are.

The truth is that they haven't shared this kind of intimacy with anyone for a long time. These are two people who have given up on many pleasures and even necessities of life because of their work, a cause, an ideology. They didn't think about the price that it had cost until the moment they remembered how good it felt to be immersed in each other that way. They have caused each other so much pain, they were so cruel to each other and to themselves. Perhaps this is the first real moment of truce between them.

This night, Christophe does to Kyle the things he always swore to himself he would. He takes him entirely, possessed by that fucking wretched love that none of them have asked to feel, but even so, it was born between them. He fucks Kyle until he can no longer think, but doesn't do it sloppily. On the contrary, every time Christophe takes it down to a painfully slow pace and only leaves tip of his cock inside him, it's intended to make Kyle squirm and ask for it with his whole body, to ask for more. So that he'll give himself to Christophe, give everything he has. And when Christophe fucks him with full force, pressing in every inch of his cock and thrusting so many times without stopping, barely taking it out, it's to drive him mad. We can't count how often Christophe thought about doing this to him ever since he laid eyes on Kyle for the first time.

The whole thing doesn't last long, mostly because they're both so needy for it that they drink everything they have at once. They don't come together because Christophe's abdomen rubbing Kyle's cock with the friction makes him reach climax first, moaning his name in a weak voice, trembling with the force of it, his legs literally shaking for over a minute. Christophe doesn't take long to come deep into him, and that's a feeling Kyle wants every day in his life from now on, Christophe's hot come filling him. With a breathless groan, Christophe lets the weight of his run out body fall over Kyle, covering him like a blanket. There's is no part of their bodies that is not bathed in mixed sweat.

To sleep, Christophe rolls a bit to the side and rubs his own face, waiting until his breath normalizes as Kyle stretches an arm to pull the crumpled blanket beneath them, covering up before the heat begins to dissipate. He asks Christophe to get up and close the window, which he does without grumbling. Returning to bed, Christophe fits behind Kyle's body, burying his nose in his damp curls, hugging him tight as if to make sure he's real. All the fight they had before the sex must have been a factor in fatigue, which is why they're knocked out a few minutes after Kyle reached out to turn off the lamp.

Four and a half hours pass.

In their sleep, Kyle is lying stomach up and Christophe laid his head on Kyle's shoulder, still holding him from the side, curled up like a dog.

There is something that Kyle doesn't know and you probably don't either, but I'll tell you now, a few moments before Kyle finds it out in the worst possible way. You see, the amount of atrocities Christophe has seen in his years as a guerrilla isn't small. And a man like him has a hard time dealing with any kind of fragility. Maybe if Christophe could talk about the things he saw, if he knew how to openly cry, he wouldn't be so tormented by ghastly dreams. More than that, maybe he wouldn't suffer so badly from post-traumatic stress disorder. But the sad thing is, that has been his normal for so many years that he doesn't know what's healthy anymore.

Well, who am I to know what would be better, right? It's just a guess. The more he tries to repress the bad thoughts, the harder such thoughts emerge to the surface as he's exposed during his sleep, with the unconscious part of his brain in charge.

It's also been so long since Christophe has fallen asleep next to someone else. And with that, I mean years. During his time in Europe, when he was to fuck someone, he'd do it and that would be it. In the end, Christophe zipped up and fucked off. There was no intimacy in that. He's not at all used to sleeping next to another person, that's something he has never done often throughout his life so far.

I'll try to make you understand how Christophe's body feels so you don't think that he's a monster, because this is not the case. Really, it isn't. Try to put yourself in his shoes for a moment.

His subconscious is steeped in blood, in misery, he finds himself among maimed people in the dream and his body reacts to it. He flounces a littl, but not enough for Kyle to wake up, since the twitches are very subtle. If someone is aware and watching him – which is, somehow, my case – one could notice that he is restless and agitated. His breathing is panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He rolls to lie on his back, resting his hand on his chest, low grunts escaping from his throat. Because he thinks he's back in a threatening place and he is completely helpless to it. He tries to speak, but can't. It's like his throat is closed. He knows there's someone close to him, he can feel the warmth and the breathing of another person. Look, at this point, Christophe has his eyes wide open. But he's not awake. No, he's still sleeping. What he sees isn't the ceiling of Kyle's room, but an immense sky covered in soot, and there is a soldier close by, there is a soldier who watches him because he knows that Christophe is not dead. And Christophe is taken by the instinctive primary impulse to defend himself. So in his dream, he attacks the soldier like an animal would, and to that, his body also reacts; Christophe rolls over the soldier, taking both of his strong hands directly to the man's throat, tightening the grip around his neck with all the force his hands have to offer. Because this is not how Christophe will die. He doesn't accept it. He has come too far to die in the middle of rubbish by the hands of a fucking little soldier.

But it isn't a soldier that Christophe is strangling. You know it isn't.

This is how Kyle wakes up. With a closed throat and the weight of a familiar body over his, with animalistic grunts and even some desperate words. With pain. Deep, nerve-racking pain. Christophe even spits when he talks, his hands trembling so much, his words impossible to understand. He's talking in French, but Kyle speaks French, and even so he can't make them out. And Kyle takes both hands to his thick arms, digging his nails deep into the flesh, trying to make his own eyes identify something in the dark, struggling desperately because it is impossible to breathe. He's running out of air. Christophe seems like a fucking closet on top of him right now.

If Kyle hadn't been very well trained to be prepared when attacked at any time of life, this could have turned out for the worst kind of misfortune. But Kyle has fast reasoning and even faster moves, well-aimed. He bends his legs using all strength, driven by adrenaline, unbalancing the man over him that he still hasn't recognized. He sees Christophe's open eyes staring directly at him, but they are lifeless. And Kyle is furious. Whoever this son of a bitch is, he just wants him dead. He uses his own body' weight to throw the man aside and both of them fall together from the bed, crashing on the ground. Kyle hits back against the nightstand and Christophe hits his head on the floor. Kyle falls over him, desperately gasping for air, burning tears running down his eyes, blinding him. Even so, he grabs his bedside lamp and pulls it harshly with all his strength, ripping the plug off the wall, almost smashing it in the face of the man who strangled him right before realizing who he was.

Christophe wakes up with the blow. He rolls to the side and covers the back of neck with his hand, letting out a low moan of pain, squinting. His nape hurts so badly that he wants to throw up or faint or both.

"Fucking hell." He whispers.

Kyle stops himself immediately, lowering the arm holding the lamp. The wire was ripped from the wall outlet and all the objects on the nightstand had also fallen to the floor, spreading around. They were both still curled up in the blanket, naked. Kyle takes a hand to his neck, still breathing loudly through his mouth and nose, taken over by the relief of his lungs filled with air. His neck hurts, but he can't even feel how bad right now, giving the adrenaline running through his body.

And Christophe stares at him in the dark, genuinely frightened, as if he has no fucking idea what just happened. He truly doesn't.

But it doesn't take him more than three seconds in silence, looking around the place and at Kyle's terrified expression, to understand what he has done. It's too dark, so he can't really see the marks of his fingers all over Kyle's neck, but the way Kyle holds his own throat with his open palm and the vivid memory of the dream makes Christophe slowly lower his head to stare at the silhouette of his hands in the dark. The two of them breathe wildly, the hearts beat so accelerated that it is almost possible to hear them.

"It's alright, Christophe." Kyle quietly says, taking his hands to the ground, trying to approach him. "I'm fine."

But the Mole just shakes his head, too perplexed to react, rising like a drunk man, his senses still inebriated. He wants to walk, but for a moment he just stands there covering his face with his hands. He trembles. Kyle also gets up, but doesn't step forward because he fear's scaring him off.

"I am fine." Kyle repeats louder. "It was just a dream."

Christophe takes a few steps back, looking so lost and uncertain of what to do next. He takes a deep breath in silence, never looking at Kyle, gathering his pants off the floor and trots out of the room, as Kyle knew he would. He bumps into the doorframe and stops for a second, closing his eyes, biting his bottom lip. The blood rush through his veins. He can still feel Kyle all over his skin, the smell of his hair still in Christophe's nostrils, the feelings of his neck still on Christophe's hands.

It turns midnight. It's officially Kyle's birthday now.


	14. The Mother

November 06, 3644

I was born and raised in the same house. My parents never moved after they arrived in South Park. This house had two floors, an attic and a basement. After I left home, my parents turned my bedroom into an office, but my younger brother's room remained untouched. Perhaps this is natural, due to the accident. People understand the unbearable pain of a mother who loses her child and clings to their physical belongings to feel like they're still around, even if just for a moment. When my brother was twelve years old, he was playing on ice, a very common tradition for children in South Park. The ice cracked under his feet and he fell into the water. He was alone. I was supposed to be taking care of him, but didn't want to go outside in the cold that day. I figured he was enough of a big boy to take care of himself. When I went out to call him at lunchtime, it was too late. I was the one who found him dead. Since then, his room remained exactly the same, even though the door was always shut.

That was the story that my mother came up with to justify the loss of her Canadian adopted son, who was still perfectly alive, living down in the basement for almost three years in the hiding. Stan was the only person who knew he was alive, beside my parents. And me, of course. I could not lie to Stan even at that time, but it took me a year to tell my parents that he knew, trying to convince them that it would be good for Ike to see Ike someone other than the three of us. In fact, it did wonders for his mental health. Stan cried when he saw him. Stan and my brother had always loved each other a whole fucking lot.

Now, dinner with my family was part of our routine. My mother was demanding on the matter of forcing me to have a family life. I confess that I would much rather visit Sharon, Stan's mom, than visiting my own parents. Sharon was so similar to Stan, gentle and quiet, an earnest and sensible kind of person who didn't impose anything on anyone. My mother was the extreme opposite. By some miracle of nature, somehow, they even managed to be friends. And it wasn't even a matter related to my relationship with Stan, because it happened when we were kids.

But naturally, with the war and all the political obligations, my mother had no time for trivialities like afternoon tea with friends. And Sharon seemed like too clever of a person to agree to my mother's radicalism and how she had been sold to the opposing forces. I don't mean to say that Sharon was in favor of the rebels or anything like that, but I'm pretty sure she wasn't in favor of war and oppression. Sharon and I never talked openly about this kind of thing.

On the contrary, in my parents' house, political indoctrination was intense. There wasn't a single dinner that Stan and I didn't have to listen to stupid nationalist repetitions, the same as the Governor had constantly reporting on the news.

It was beginning to get cold. The real cold. My father opened the door holding a glass of wine, wearing a buttoned up sweater that made me realize how he was already getting old, or maybe that was less to blame on the sweater and more on the tired look on his face. He hugged me first. Talking about him is a little easier. I won't say that my father and I were friends, nor that he didn't think exactly like my mother deep inside, but I think my father's mistake was not being able to see that not everyone had the same chances in life. My father was a somewhat arrogant man, he had never starved and believed mostly in hard work. I could understand that. In the world we lived in, our country facing economic and social difficulties, he wanted the best for his own family and wasn't concerned with others. He was a good man, I can say. My father's sin, like many other's, was being ignorant.

My mother was in the kitchen and the delicious smell of food was taking over the entire room. I left my backpack on the floor and went over to greet her as my father and Stan exchanged a few words in the room. They never had much to talk about, but really liked each other.

She was leaning to check out the roast in the oven and didn't notice me when I entered the kitchen. My parents were still trying to preserve kosher food habits, one of the few religious aspects that still survived in the country. Anyway, my mother let out a startled scream as she got up, then started to laugh, putting her hand on her chest. I kissed her face.

"You boys are already here?! Nothing's ready yet."

"Don't worry, mom. I wanted to go down to the basement before dinner anyway." I took off my thick coat to hang it on a chair. "Do you need help here?"

"Where's Stanley?" She asked, screaming loud enough so that he could hear her from the living room. Stan was smart enough to show up at the kitchen door right away, always wearing that nice smile that made him even more beautiful.

"Here, Mrs. Broflovski."

My mother hugged him tightly, still holding a wooden spoon, squeezing both arms around his body so damn hard that I could swear I heard Stan's back cracking. Sometimes I was sure that she liked him better than me. It's a kind of childish thought to have, specially because I was always saying how I'd rather spend time with Stan's mom than with my own. And in most cases, it always seems easier to be someone else's child, since with them you'll never have the same neurosis you have with your own parents. But in my situation, it would actually have been easier to be raised by someone like Sharon.

Anyway, Stan didn't seem to be bothered at all by the oddities of my family. Perhaps because he was one of the most patient people I've ever met. As my mother told me Stan was too thin and that I wasn't feeding him right, I interrupted her to ask if he would like to go down to the basement with me. We never spoke Ike's name, not even indoors. It was something we got used to for security reasons. Stan said no, winking at me with that face that told me he understood it would be better for us to be alone.

I missed my brother so fucking much and Stan knew it. To be honest, it was my biggest (if not only) reason to visit my parents so often.

"I'll go down there in a while." He replied, and then resumed the conversation with my mother, who opened the oven to check the roast again.

We were okay, Stan and I. Or at least I faithfully believed that. He started to cook with me again, which I took as a form of forgiveness, and Gregory commented that he looked better. After that morning in the training shed, in the evening of that same day, we had another long talk on the bed and had sex after a long time. I knew that things were not quite lightweight or completely resolved, but Stan was trying his best and I forced myself to try as well. It was hard to recognize a problem that we couldn't name. Little by little he gave into the Monarch's more radical planning and didn't argue with Christophe in meetings anymore.

I didn't spend any more sleepless nights with Christophe in the work apartment during the week. I was trying my hardest not to be alone with him, which was easier than I'd expected. I think he realized this, because there was a subtle change in his behavior. In fact, I noticed that he had started to ignore me. He didn't even look at me, barely greeted me. But then again, he had never been open and friendly enough that I could tell if this change was real or in my head.

Anyway, I went over all these things in my mind before opening the basement door. I could already see the dim light down there, which was produced by only one light bulb hanging from the low ceiling, the kind that you turn on and off by pulling a string. The basement conditions were the best possible, which wasn't much. Even in economically stable families, no one lived well after the war had begun. That is, except for the small percentage that didn't even have room to hold that much money. But my parents did what they could to provide some comfort to my brother downstairs.

It had a small wooden bed, well made with a plaid comforter. There was a lamp on a bedside table, a carpet, a full bookcase (many of those had been gifts from me because Ike was a book worm since childhood). There was also a desk with a chair, which is where he was sitting on when he heard me coming down the stairs. The steps creaked under my weight every time. Downstairs there was also a little bathroom just for him and a small fridge where he basically kept water and apples.

Ike was writing something in a notebook, wearing his thick black glasses, but took them off when he saw me by the end of the stairs. He smiled so wide that my heart almost came out of my mouth.

"What's up, fagot?" He said as he got up to hug me. I laughed, of course, even if it was a sad laugh, because Ike had this power over me. He always said the wrong thing at the right time. Our embrace, however, always had that bitter taste and neither of us could let go for at least fifteen seconds.

Fifteen seconds is an eternity to hug someone hello.

When we finally let go of each other, he put his glasses on his head and I could take a good look at his pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept for a week or so. Ike looked older than he actually was. He was just a boy, for God's sake, but he looked like a grown up. A grown up who hasn't taken a shower in four or five days.

On the desk, there was a plate full of crumbs and a mug half full with milk.

"Stan hasn't come with you?"

"He's upstairs, he'll come say hi in a minute." I paused, watching as he grabbed his coat thrown over the bed to make room for me to sit on the edge. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know. The usual." Ike sat back on the chair, but backwards, turning it in my direction when I make myself comfortable on his bed. "Every day is the same for me. You're the one who has to tell me how shit is going."

What worried me most about Ike was the fact that the isolation made him act a little... Odd. It wasn't anything he said, not exactly, but the way he looked and his behavior in general. It hurt so deep in my chest to see him living that way when he should be running free in the world flirting with girls or boys, studying, growing up. In contrast, it was also a way of knowing that he was safe because the outside world had so many atrocities that I didn't know what I thought was best for him.

I knew our mother omitted many things from him. Ike was someone I could talk about anything. And he knew I had I joined the resistance, "La Resistance", as they were calling the whole thing in a somewhat ironic reference. I was always afraid to personally talk to him about these things, because our mom could come down at any time. We wrote letters to each other, but all of these letters went through her. Ike always said that the envelopes arrived to him closed, because she had no real reason to suspect anything. We were just her children talking about stuff. Still, I didn't trust her. Every information I put on those letters was rather limited.

"I don't know, Ike." The words choked in my throat. I slowly licked my lips and took a deep breath, moving both hands down my thighs, feeling the thick fabric of my jeans under my palms. "I don't know what's gonna happen."

"When are you guys gonna start doing the heavy stuff, huh?" He asked so casually, but sounding so sincere that it tightened my chest.

"Don't talk like that."

"Listen, are you and Stan okay?" Ike asked, spinning a little in his chair like a child playing, grabbing the mug and completely ignoring what I just said. Or maybe not, because he did exactly what I asked. Ike was very literal sometimes. "You and that guy are still...?"

"Can we talk about something else?" I interrupted him. "Yes, we're okay."

A sarcastic expression appeared on his little bitchy face, even though nothing came out of his mouth. Gosh, he looked so funny wearing that green plaid shirt, wearing those glasses and a ridiculous headband holding his black hair back, holding that huge mug with a picture of some science fiction movie he loved printed on it. Ike couldn't annoy me even if he wanted to, and he did, very much. Also, we saw each other so rarely, I couldn't even give myself the luxury to get pissed.

Ike knew about some things, not everything. He was aware about both our plans (actually, I talked very little about it for his own safety) and the personal issues that I had going on. I spoke a lot about Christophe at first, about his ideologies and everything else I was discovering, since it was fascinating to me. When I started to have problems with Stan because of that and I told Ike about it, he shrugged and said he already knew. Apparently, my eyes sparkled when I talked about "that guy."

"Did something happen?" He asked me suspiciously.

"No, Ike. For the first time in a long time, we're just fine. I guess. But I don't want to spend my time with you talking about it."

"That's fair."

So I got up. I approached his desk and picked up an aquarium paperweight that was triangular shaped, it had been mine many years ago. I took a good look at the object and gave a nostalgic smile. Ike watched me the whole time. He had no problem making eye contact or staring at people, he wasn't ashamed of making anyone uncomfortable. He had spent so much time away from humanity, that should really make a person lose some notions of social coexistence.

"Are you alright?" I asked him.

He frowned.

"You already asked me that."

"Yeah, but... You didn't really answer me. You spend so much time alone down here." I looked around the basement, swallowing hard. "If I were stuck here having to live with mom every day..."

"You'd lose your fucking mind. But you're a weaker person than I am." Ike replied with a bastard smile, leaving the mug on the desk. I pinched his arm playfully, laughing, and he winced as if it really hurt. "Stop it, fagot."

Damn, I really missed him.

I spent some time talking to Ike about stupid things, then Stan came down and we were three for fifteen minutes talking about even more stupid things until my mother came down to call us because dinner was ready. Dinner conversations were a huge contrast to the rest of our daily lives at that point. There was a small television in the kitchen that was constantly on - my mother liked to cook with the TV noise - which wasn't uncommon in times of war. The local news served as background to our talk until the moment they began to report about an act of vandalism in South Park, right at the central square, where some lout had painted the faces of Terrance and Phillip in blue and red, celebrating the American spirit. It was probably my favorite art work of all that Kenny had done before. It was hard not to smile. I filled my mouth with pasta, disguising the tension in my shoulders when my mother dropped her fork and turned to the television.

"I just can't believe this damn plague has come to our town." She said, and I could hear it in her voice how much she suffered and truly believed that any resistance movements were acts of rebellion that should be severely punished. "It makes me sick to walk by our beautiful square and having to see the faces of two murderers lauded this way." She rested her elbows on the table, making the silverware and glasses tremble with the impact, pointing her forefinger at us. "You know, boys, the worst part of it's those damn rats are probably in your college, right next to you."

"Mother." I said as patiently as I could. "Do we need to talk about this now?"

"You should be worried about that sort of thing, Kyle. Young people like you don't realize that these things influence your future. What kind of country do you want to live in?"

"Students are disappearing, did you know that?"

"Kyle." Stan called me as a cautious warning, sounding worried, placing his hand on my leg. He knew it wasn't worth a damn, talking to my mother about these things was as useful as talking to a wall. Perhaps the wall would listen to me better.

"Well. If you care to know, that tranquilizes me." She said with rough conviction. My father did pretty much the same movement as Stan, placing his hand on her shoulder, but didn't call for her name. It was just a "calm down, dear" gesture that had no effect on my mother. "That they are not allowing the scum to just do whatever they want."

"Are you listening yourself?" I asked with an incredulous smile, my eyes exaggeratedly wide, nervously laughing because I had no other reaction to give. "Sometimes it seems like you're the one living on a basement, you know? You talk like you have no idea what the Government orders the sappers to do."

Then she stood up, pushing her chair back with her butt and slamming both hands on the table, the bracelets on her arm making a funny noise. My mother is a big strong woman, intimidating even. Being raised by her was a violent experience, to say the least. Even so, she has always been an inexhaustible source of security, too over-protective, but that has always set me some very specific rules about how I should or should not live my life. And it was very comfortable to live according to her morals until the breaking point where I discovered that her life ideologies were monstrous. I didn't believe that my mother was a bad person, really. And that was the main reason for me to keep a healthy distance between us, knowing that she was just ignorant. That's the excuse I used.

And just like every ignorant person, she always got to the point where she just his the table and growled.

"I don't like your tone." She growled between her teeth, visibly nervous. The idea that her own son could remotely agree with any of the Monarchs's views or any resistance group made her ill. I almost felt sorry for her.

"Sheila, please." My father said, but to my mother, my father's voice was no different from a meowing cat. She was so used to ignore him that it didn't affect her at all.

What made my mother sit down again was Stan's expression and the way he got a little closer to me, demonstrating a silent support. My mother adored him. When she realized that he was uncomfortable, she cleared her throat and took a deep breath, settling back on the chair like the lady she was. My heart kept pounding like crazy inside my chest. I turned my face to Stan with eyes full of anguish; he made a quick caress on my hair and leaned down to kiss my cheek.

"Be careful with what you say, boys. Security is being redoubled, the sappers have their eyes open now. It would be very easy for you to be confused with such people."

I would have laughed at the irony of I, had it not been absolutely tragic.


	15. The Guts

November 10, 3644

I put my hands in the pockets of my overcoat in a vain attempt to warm them up. My heart was beating out of control inside my chest because it was nearly 11 p.m. and I shouldn't be walking around the streets. I knew all about the consequences of what I was doing, I knew them very well, and I wouldn't blame anyone for calling me an idiot. If any man in white was going on his night patrol and caught me there, the very best thing that I could hope for was being beaten to death. So I ran a bit. A very ominous mood took over the entire town - the nation, perhaps - with the news linking possible terrorist attacks to the Monarchs. My mother wasn't kidding when she said the government was beginning to prepare serious preventive measures. Every day, we heard stories about people who got caught on the streets at the wrong time and didn't survive to tell. It was the first time I actually began to feel fear for being guilty of something under the eyes of the government.

I was on the street after curfew because of an episode that took place the morning of that same day in the training shed. I was punching a sand bag with all my force when Christophe came up behind me, breathing on the nape of my neck, speaking quietly and calmly:

"Meet me at the Cathedral tonight. At eleven."

He didn't explain anything. He just gave me that whispered sentence that made it very clear that his invitation should be a secret. It took me a few seconds to even think of a reaction; we hadn't talked in nearly two weeks, he'd just been ignoring me, didn't make eye contact and didn't open the possibility of a conversation, not even small talk. I thought this was the best for both of us, I even thought that maybe I had overcome something that hadn't even happen and never would. But all it took was him coming from behind me in surprise, breaking into a distracted moment of vulnerability with such a strange order... My heart felt like it was about to jump out of my mouth. My knees buckled.

I've always been pretty good at handling my weaknesses. I disguised it immediately with a confused expression, watching his face over my shoulder. But it had no impact on him. It was like waiting for a wall to react to your facial expression. I still couldn't understand Christophe at that point, but I did expect him to do exactly what he did: walking away as if nothing had happened, playfully punching his own palm. For a while, I was focused on his wide back covered in sweat, how the muscles moved under his firm flesh, like an animal.

The fucker knew I wouldn't ask any questions. He also knew that Stan's presence a few feet from us would keep me from reacting. It was such a pretentious attitude and it angered me deeply at the moment, so I decided right there that I wasn't going to no fucking Cathedral. Needless to say, I changed my mind, just like he knew I would. I couldn't think of anything else that entire day. By the time I lay in bed to sleep, I still wasn't sure what to do. But Stan fell asleep so fast and the digital clock illuminated the dark room, teasing me with its numbers. Curiosity gnawed at me. Why the hell would he ask me to meet him at this hour? What the fuck could he possibly want?

I didn't see Christophe right away because he was smart enough not just stand around in front of the Cathedral, exposing himself. The fact that I didn't see him there froze my entire nervous system for a few seconds. What calmed me down was the speck of orange light of his cigarette on the side alley, where there were very few lamp posts. I never quite understood why they called Christophe "The Mole"; I knew he had an immense affection for his shovel and liked to dig holes and staying in dark spaces. He was always holed up somewhere, watching over things. He knew I was approaching without even looking at me.

When I got close enough, he threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his foot. He wiped his runny nose with his fingers and lifted his chin a little, resting his bare hands in the pockets of his military green coat. Christophe stared at me with his hazel eyes, as beautiful as aggressive, licked his upper lip and handed it to me. "I thought you wouldn't come."

His voice was restrained. I knew we couldn't speak loudly.

"I probably shouldn't have. But..." I didn't know how to finish the sentence, because I had no idea what I was doing there. The idea of being alone with him made my stomach turn. Still, I kept a safe distance, almost as if I was afraid he'd hurt me. Well, that's not what I was afraid of. I just shrugged.

He stuck his thick fingers in his mouth as if trying to get rid of a piece of chicken stuck in his teeth. Jesus, how graceless could that man be? Turning his back to me, Christophe walked out of the dark alley as if he was sure that I would follow. That angered me deeply. Again. I huffed down, shaking my head before rushing to catch up to him.

"Does your boyfriend know you're here?"

Then I thought he was just deliberately teasing. I frowned, expressing my anger at that, but he wasn't looking in my direction. He kept his eyes on the dark road, walking in the middle of the street. There wasn't a living soul in sight. I walked next to him, only one or two steps behind.

"What do you think?!"

"I thought so." He answered with no emotion, zipping up his jacket before putting his hands back in the baggy pockets.

"Where the hell are we going?"

He didn't respond to me immediately. My patience was running short. I grabbed his arm without measuring force; Christophe wasn't used to being touched, especially all of the sudden like this. He stopped walking so abruptly that I nearly ran into his body, which felt a lot more like a brick wall, under the circumstances. He wasn't absurdly taller than me, but that's how he felt. There was no lighting on that street. The nearest lamp post was about fifty feet ahead at the corner of the street. Still, every line of his face was so clear before me... Maybe I was already too familiar with that face. Christophe stared at me with a tight jaw, his eyes looking like they saw right through me or inside me, studying things I had never shown to anyone.

I instinctively let go of his arm, returning to fill my lungs with air when I realized I wasn't breathing.

He almost smiled when he saw this glance of hesitation in me. Or maybe my eyes were playing tricks on my brain. All I know is that Christophe parted his lips to speak, held the words back for a moment, then he took a deep breath.

"Listen, we don't have much time. I don't know how fast you can run if something goes wrong, so I'll be straight here." His index finger approached my face. He had a huge scar on that finger. I couldn't see it in the dark, but I knew by heart all of the scars on his body, at least the ones that were always on display for everyone to see. "Just walk while you listen, can you do that?"

Instead of answering with words, I only resumed a slower walk beside him, staring at the ground and biting my lower lip, afraid of what might come next. Christophe put both hands behind his head and looked up at the sky above us, full of thick clouds and pollution that hid the stars. He stretched a little, sounding terribly exhausted.

"So, what do you want with me?" I finally asked.

"Gregory said you're good with computers."

I narrowed my eyes in suspicion, unsure of what to say. That still wasn't an explanation on any level. I rubbed my hands to try to warm them a little, bringing them to my face, blowing steam from my mouth on my palms.

"I know how to use one, which is more than most people learn. Why?"

"You could be very helpful if you let aside that stupid ethical dilemma."

I didn't like the way that was heading, but I didn't stop walking. We came to the illuminated part in the corner of the street, cutting through the narrow alley beside a huge factory. Christophe looked back twice during this conversation, which made me turn too, but there was no sign of sappers or mechanical guards. Those would be easily heard.

"What exactly do you want from me, Mole?!"

He remained silent, then gave me a stern worried look. After nearly ten seconds, he decided to please me with an answer. "First I need you to promise me you won't tell Marsh. Actually, don't fucking tell anyone."

Okay, that was hitting my limit; which, by the way, could be considered very flexible. I stopped walking right under a spotlight of a malfunctioning lamp post; one of the lamps was burnt out. We stopped in front of a red brick building that looked like a house, but was used as a bank.

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?"

He also stopped in anticipation that this would be more difficult than he had originally planned. He approached me, trying to force a calm expression that he wasn't feeling; He was visibly impatient with the whole thing. He spoke very low. "Listen to me, two Monarchs from New York have arrived tonight. They're at an apartment not far from here. With the President's birthday coming up, they figured we'd need help. And they're right." He kept a hand in his pocket and the other one gesturing in front of his chest. Even with that restrained tone, his voice was deep and firm, as if he had no doubts about what he was saying. "Look, Kyle. There's no time for you to freak out right now, but I better tell you this before we get there. They brought a bomb."

I don't know if what hit me harder was Christophe's words themselves or if it was the cold tone he used to said them. I felt the air leave my lungs. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Before I realized, I was taking a step back and raising my open hand in protest, eyes wide, shaking my head very subtly from side to side. I was too upset to be able to put words in that surreal situation; I had no idea how I had gotten there in the first place. It was terrifying enough to be exposed outdoors at improper hours, it was reckless and dangerous enough to be part of a rebellion, but... But terrorism?

My mother's words were all that echoed in my ears. 'They're all wild, bloody terrorists with no faith, they're soulless offenders, they take lives and drink the blood of innocent people.' No, that wasn't true. I knew it wasn't. So why did I feel like throwing up?

"No, Christophe... No, that..."

"Hey." He sniffed my fear right away; He held me by the shoulders so firmly, in this way that immediately made me feel safe and I hated it. He was shaking my body somewhat unintentionally. "It's for the parliament. It will be empty, but we need the distraction. This is a message. It's to make clear that they don't want to fuck with us."

"No!" I spoke much louder than I should have. "The whole town will be on the street that day, it will be full of kids… Fuck no, Christophe. That's too dangerous."

His hands fell from my shoulders. My skin went cold only with his way of looking at me, breathing deeply, as if trying to figure out an impossible puzzle. He wasn't just confused, he looked disappointed at some level too. And I felt so shitty. Why, though? Damn, that was not my fault, I did not have to justify my ethics to that man.[

"I don't get it." He suddenly said, rolling his lips inside his mouth and then shaking his head in disapproval for whatever reason. He took two steps back, out of the spotlight. "I don't get why you insist on giving in to his cheap fucking pacifism as if you actually believe that crap."

"His? You mean Stan?"

Christophe didn't bother to confirm. He shrugged and looked away to the other side of the street. There was a bicycle leaning against the wall of a building, looking old and abandoned. The shadow cast on his face made it almost frightening, his silhouette now projecting an unknown image. He looked so serious.

"You're different, Kyle." He continued, still not looking at me. "You're different from all of them. They want justice, sure, who the fuck doesn't? But this town's shitty tiny little minds are not ready to pay the price. You are." Finally, his feral eyes slowly turned toward me. His pupils were dilated, making the iris a very thin green. Christophe's eyes had strange yellow spots around the pupils, but these only appeared in the sun. They were beautiful, those wretches eyes. It was as if I couldn't hide anything from them. "You... I wouldn't have fucking brought you here if you were ordinary. If I wasn't sure that you are capable. So different from your boyfriend, that weakish boy who's afraid of his own shadow."

I was overcome by a strong urge to scream for him to shut the fuck up, but all he said before had numbed me completely, as he knew it would. And I almost hated him for it. I closed my eyes and let it hurt me without immediate reaction.

"You have no idea what you're saying." I replied after a long pause, opening my eyes to realize that he was closer to me. "You arrogant son of a fucking bitch, what right do you have to talk about Stan like that?! About anyone? This shit is wrong and you know it, you're not... You don't want to kill any more people, Christophe. I know you don't."

Even when the insults left my lips, it was like my voice didn't carry any anger at all. He also didn't seem to take offense. Maybe it was the adrenaline, the fear that someone caught us thus exposed in the street. He didn't raise his voice.

"Who said anything about killing? I've told you, no one innocent is going to die. Not by our hands, at least. Because they will be armed, so will we."

"And that's enough. We don't need a fucking bomb! You can't ask me to keep that from the others, we're a group. Look at the fucking position you're putting me in. Why the hell did you tell me this?!"

At this point, the more I absorbed what he was telling me, the more nervous I became. I started walking without actually going anywhere, from one side to the other, rubbing my own face.

"Because I trust you." He said suddenly. He got close enough to grab my wrist and stopped me, forcing me to look at him very closely. "I trust you. I need you. Your passion, your intelligence..." The grip of his hand on my wrist got to hurt a little, but I didn't feel anything at the moment. I was numbed by the sight of his face, close enough that I could smell his skin. I couldn't feel my own legs. Then, he let go of me. "Those kids have no idea what's about to come, Kyle. I don't know how many of them will actually have the guts to look into the eyes of another human being and take their life to defend the cause, but I know you can."

"Stop talking like I'm a fucking murderer, like that should be something beautiful! It fucking isn't!"

"You're not afraid." He continued as if he hadn't heard what I said. "I see the way you hit, the way you shoot, how turned on you get when you're training, like you're ready for it. I see the blood in your eyes, Kyle. And it pisses me the fuck off that you keep holding yourself back, fighting these instincts because of him... You have something that can't be taught, a fucking fire that..." Christophe stepped away from me, looking away for a second. "That shit can't be wasted. It drives me fucking insane."

I didn't know what he was talking about, but didn't care. I kept still standing there, doped with my heart about put a hole in my chest, while wanting to dig a hole in the ground and disappear. I didn't know what to say to him, how to react. It was the silence and the cold that brought us back to reality. Christophe slightly shook his head and continued to walk the way he did before, realizing that I wouldn't say anything back, I had no more protests to do.

Again, I ran to follow him.

"Hey, wait." I spoke softly. I realized I was out of breath, but didn't really know why. He turned his head over his shoulder, slowing the pace down, but not stopping completely. "All right, I'll go with you. I've come this far anyway... But I'm not agreeing on anything. I want to talk to the Monarchs. Find out what they're planning."

He didn't say anything, just nodded and kept looking forward. The only sound that echoed on the street was our footsteps on the sidewalk. Only after about two minutes in silence I understood that he knew that I would give in at the end of that discussion. A thousand things went through my mind at once.

Suddenly he slowed down and lowered his head a little. That triggered something that was already rolling out on the tip of my tongue; the words were out before I could think about them. "I trust you too."

And I did. It was one of the most real things I've ever told someone.

Since I spoke without thinking, I had no expectations about his reaction. But I certainly was not expecting him to do what he did next. Christophe put a finger over his lips as if asking for silence, and less than a second later he was pushing me violently into the alley that I hadn't even noticed yet. He pressed me against the side wall of the building and we almost stumbled over a garbage bag that was lying on the floor, but Christophe had his arm around my waist and held me firmly. I looked up to face his face, distressed by the closeness, instinctively bringing my hands to his chest, not knowing if I should push him away or pull him against me. I shifted uncomfortably between Christophe's large body and the wall, feeling his rough hand covering my mouth as soon as I tried to show any kind of reaction. And he wasn't looking at me as I had expected; He stretched his neck to look out of the alley, as if waiting for someone to appear.

It was only then that I started to get genuinely scared. My blood was pumping wildly in my veins. Christophe finally turned to face me as if only then he remembered that I existed and took solid two seconds to run his hand down to cover my neck, taking longer than necessary to remove his palm from my skin. His fingers kept touching my chin for a while, undecided; that touch tingled all over my body. And we stood there with eyes locked on each other, heavy breathing, ours hearts pounding. I could feel his too.

Holy shit. I had never felt anything like that before. My whole life, ever since I could remember, I had been in love with Stan. And between us, it was always very safe and comfortable. There has always been love. I had never experienced such devastating ember from the inside out, capable of making me move my body against my rational will, as if I wasn't the owner of my own flesh, flirting with the danger of losing control all the time. Just the way he looked at me left me quite hard and terrified at the same time.

Until he whispered. "Someone's coming."

And with that, he detached his body from mine. The breeze felt even colder after the loss of his heat. I was taken by relief and disappointment, but I could not feed either of these feelings because my brain was too focused on what he had just told me. Christophe drew a knife from his boot in a frighteningly silent way and approached the edge of the wall, ready to attack.

He pressed the knife handle so tightly in his wrist that his knuckles turned white. I knew he had a gun inside that jacket, but the noise of shooting could certainly make our situation worse. There was nowhere to run, the alley had no way out. Before I could think of any other possibility than the physical confrontation, a shadow was projected on the floor right next to us. Christophe got to pick up the impulse to move forward on what appeared to be the silhouette of a man, ready to put that knife in his skull, but then he braked with the extraordinary ability of a cat when a well-known voice called my name.

"Fucking shit!" Christophe shouted, taking his free hand to his forehead. From this angle, he could already see the figure; I still couldn't. But I didn't have to see him to know who it was. The voice was enough for me. "I almost fucking stabbed you in the eye, you fucking moron!"

The Mole wasn't screaming, but there was a lack of control in his voice for a while. He looked genuinely scared of what he had almost done.

"You followed me?!" I asked, pushing Christophe away to take the lead, finally able to see Stan standing with hands in his pockets and a stern expression on his face, not reacting to my sudden appearance. "Stan, what the fuck...?!"

I honestly could not say that I was relieved. It was just a different kind of demon I had planned to face that night.

"You sneaked out in the middle of the night, are you sure you want to accuse me of something?" He asked without looking shaken. He even looked pissed. Then, he sighed. "Look, I was worried. What the hell are you doing?"

"Working." Christophe interrupted before I could say anything. He took a good look at Stan, up and down, probably trying to understand what he had heard from our talk. Part of me wished he had heard all of it, so I didn't have to hide anything from him anymore. But the other part of me was too terrified of what he might think. Finally, the Mole looked around, searching for other presences, then motioned that we crossed the street. He was changing the way. "Now you're working too, Marsh."

Stan was still looking at me, and fuck, there was so much sorrow and hurt in his eyes. I stared back as if I had done nothing wrong, because I needed to assure him that it wasn't what he was thinking. It was easy because I was still slightly pissed to learn that he would follow me. We'd have a rough conversation after that and I was tired of even thinking about it.

Stan was the one who made the first mention to follow Christophe. We walked next to each other, relatively close, while Christophe remained ahead at a distance. I didn't recognize the way he was going, but pretended I was very sure about everything.

After a moment of tense silence, I let out a thought aloud. "Man, you really don't trust me."

It was dark to be sure, but I thought I saw Stan roll his eyes.

"That was the most hypocritical thing that ever came out of your mouth."

"You know what I'm doing when I don't sleep at home."

"Do I, Kyle? It's so funny that you demand trust while hiding shit from me. Really, it's hilarious."

I considered sinking myself further in the lie for a second, maybe telling him that I wasn't hiding shit, that I didn't sneak out, that he was sleeping and I just didn't want to wake him up. But I didn't have the guts to lie right at his face. And there was no reason for me to lie; I trusted Stan, even if Christophe didn't.

"Stan. I'm really trying to protect you here." I said at last, and it was the truth.

"What does that even mean?!" Stan asked, sounding more afflicted than angry.

"Hey." Christophe said suddenly, looking back. "If a sapper hear the two of you fighting, don't count on me to save your asses. Lower your damn voices."

With that, Stan shut down. He snorted angrily and pressed the bridge of his nose as he always did when he had to force himself to be patient. I could clearly see how he was wishing he hadn't come. My heart ached.

It was a less than ten minute walk to the abandoned toy store on the worst side of town. It was one of our headquarters, although I still hadn't gone there yet. The access was through the back door; broken glass of a large window overlooking an alley. I was used to living in the alleys by now, after months clandestinely crossing this town out of curfew. In fact, it's something I used to do even before that.

It was dark inside the store. The only source of light was a burning lamp hanging from the ceiling by a makeshift hook. There was still some toys left on the shelves, but most were empty. Everything was covered in dust. It wasn't a very large space; there was a central counter with some weapons and ammunition resting on it, a bottle of rum and another one of water, some papers spread around.

And to my surprise, Tweek was standing in front of that counter, messing with something very similar to a cylindrical radio. Under the poor lighting, I still doubted my own eyes. What would Tweek be doing there?

"Tweek? What are you doing here?" Stan asked as if reading my thoughts, looking even more confused than me. He was avoiding my eyes.

But Tweek didn't pay much attention to us. He dropped the "radio" thing noisily and joined his hands, walking around the counter, running to approach Christophe. Just a little, not too close. Christophe dropped his backpack on the floor and took off his coat, leaving the gun on the counter, furrowing his thick eyebrows at Tweek's fuss.

"Has anyone seen you?!" Tweek asked, clutching his own plaid shirt with anguish, in the left part of his chest. His hair was all disheveled and he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.

"Jesus, what's wrong with you, asshole?!" Christophe asked. "Nobody saw us."

"I thought I heard... There was someone out there, I swear!"

There always was. To Tweek, the government already knew everything we had planned, they had spies in the group and our brains were monitored. He was always embarking on this kind of paranoia with no shred of evidence. Christophe just snorted down and scratched his head.

"Alright, listen." He spoke, turning to us. "Let's take a break. I'll clean the knives and study the undergrounds on the city map. You guys just do whatever or go to sleep, I don't give a shit. Just don't fucking go outside, we've pushed our luck far enough today."

With that, he pushed the door to the room on the back, which was probably some kind of tiny office, as every property had one.

Stan looked at me with the corner of his eye, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Didn't you come here to work? Now he's dismissing your help?"

"Plans have changed." I replied quietly, containing my impatience.

Tweek literally walked from one side to the other, circling around that dirty counter. It was strange to see him so close to weapons. Stan approached him without answering me, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Seriously man, what are you doing here?"

"M-me? Uhn… Oh, I'm… I'm helping." He rubbed his fingers, moving quickly away from Stan's hand to pick up the odd electronic that he had before. "Yeah, I'm helping. I asked him to let me work, and... Mole has been teaching me a lot of stuff, y'know?"

It was weird how defensive Tweek was acting, as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing. Stan stared at him for a few seconds, but he must have noticed this too and didn't want to push him. So he stepped back and let Tweek continue nudging the object with a screwdriver.

I sat on the ground and covered my head with both hands. It didn't take long for Stan to sit next to me - not touching me, but close enough. I waited for an interrogation that did not come. In fact, it took almost twenty minutes for him to talk to me.

"What were you really going to do?" He asked me quietly, with a lot less anger than before.

First, I just turned my head and stared at him. Then I filled my lungs with air. All the appropriate words had disappeared from my mind.

"I'm not sure. He didn't tell me exactly." I took a pause, trying to convince myself that was not a lie. It wasn't, but it sure felt like one. "Stan... I'm not deceiving you. There are things that… It's better if you don't know."

"You have no idea how much it scares me to hear that from your mouth."

I parted my lips and even started a sentence I would never finish, because the conversation was interrupted. The shop was invaded by everything that you don't want to hear that late at night; a sequence of terrified screams. They belonged to a woman and seemed to come straight from the alley out there on the other side of the access window.

It all happened very fast. Tweek despaired immediately, dropping the heavy radio on the counter, which shook. The thing made a huge bang and Tweek started screaming too, walking backwards, tripping over his legs as he held his head with both hands. Stan was the one who got up first, making violent shush sounds, gesticulating with his hands for him to calm down.

But Tweek didn't calm down. He trembled uncontrollably. He ran off toward the office door, bumping into Christophe, who came out the room at the same time to understand what the hell was going on. Outside, the woman asked for help. A few seconds after Tweek ran into the small room to hide, a strange face appeared on the window. Christophe was still standing in the doorway. There was a knife in his hand. He discreetly hid it behind his back, but was taken aback; the man pointed his gun right at him, aiming between the eyes.

At this point, I also was standing. I didn't know exactly how I came to that position. I'd probably jumped like a cat when I realized what was going on. I clung to Stan's arm almost without realizing it. We didn't exchange glances, never deviating attention from the man in white holding the gun. But I felt Stan's warm hand on mine.

I thought I'd throw up my own stomach. Seeing the barrel of that gun pointed directly to Christophe was like taking a punch right at the face; all the worst possible scenarios crossed my mind like bullet shots. If that man die in front of me... If everything that happened up to that point hadn't mean shit, if that precious life were to end so stupidly, so trite, over a careless decision... Was that what being a rebel meant? Maybe it just meant that young people really aren't worth shit in the world. Maybe that's it. Gregory always said that our lives belonged to the cause, it was the only way to die. For us, at least. And that our longings and anxieties were small before the value of our shed blood; I think that is how you make a revolution: on a pile of corpses.

That was all very beautiful in theory. But when you're there, face to face with the death of a loved one, you would trade any revolution for their life. That's the ugly truth. Whoever says different is lying.

The man in white was not much older than us; maybe in his early thirties. He had a mole on his left cheek, I remember it well. His eyes were dark. He was smiling with yellow teeth, taking a childish delight from the occasion. He had a short ponytail and a very large head.

"Roy! Hey, Roy!" He shouted, alternating his gaze between the three of us, but the trigger still targeted Christophe. He should be well trained to sniff out the presence of the strongest one. "Drop that bitch and come take a look at the rat's nest I've just found. Look at that beauty."

Christophe's hand tightened around the handle of the knife hidden behind his back. He was squeezing it so hard that thought it was going to break. He did not move. His breathing was different now.

The man in white pointed at him like the weapon was a finger, a gesture that soon fell apart. He stuck his head through the shop window, inspecting the room, the broken glass on the floor, Christophe's gun on the counter and everything else that we could use to defend ourselves. Stan and I were too far to reach for the gun.

It was the first time I had real notion that, no matter how many bottles you shoot, you'll never be ready to shoot another human being before actually doing it. Maybe not even after that. My hands were still clean of blood at that time.

"Damn." The sapper continued. "You folks really do spread like a plague, don't you?" He paused briefly. "I see the little toy you have there, kid. You'll probably want to drop that now. Unless you prefer a bullet in the skull."

Christophe bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing. I could almost hear him growl. My heart was bursting in my chest, which made my ears warm.

He wasn't stupid. He dropped the knife, of course. And I was indescribably grateful when I heard the sound of metal falling to the ground. Christophe continued to face him with inflamed hatred in his eyes. He did not say a word, remained motionless, but his expression was striking.

"Good boy, no need to make things harder. Now tell me, how many of you are there?"

"There's no one else." The Mole replied, not giving us time to even display a reaction. What may have saved our lives, even though I had no idea of it at the time. "It's just the three of us."

"Oh, a foreigner, huh? That's fun." The man smiled at Christophe's accent. "Very well. So you're telling me I can look around your little lair as much as I want and I won't find another rat?"

"Feel free." He said, taking both hands to his head even before the sapper ordered him to. He seemed apprehensive but calm enough, as if none of this was new to him. Thinking about it made me sick to the stomach. I had no idea what he was planning. Anyway, Stan and I did the same. The guy liked what he saw.

For some reason, the screams also ceased. I could hear a low talk still, the woman now desperately wailing for the bastard that had been doing awful things to her. Roy was his name. My attention wandered between trying to identify what she was saying and praying a little bit. Yes, praying. I had never been taught how, the concept of religion was something far away that we studied in the history books. But people still looked up to the sky and cried silently for help when things got out of hand. So I asked: I didn't know who I was asking to, but I asked for with all my will for that man to never find Tweek, who was certainly crying in the fetal position, terrified out of his mind.

I also asked for the life of that poor woman, that nothing terrible happened to her. It felt so empty to ask that the superior forces took care of us. Maybe that's why religion had been abolished. Praying only weighted more on my impotence. The gods must have had more important things to do that night.

We did as the man in white ordered. The three of us jumped out the window, one after the other, Christophe in front, then Stan, then me. We saw yet another common scene unrolling in that alley; another sapper held a blond woman by the hair as she laid on the ground, her clothes torn around the breast area, only rags covering her intimacy. Her face was smeared with black tears running down, mixed with her makeup. She had bruises. It was dark, but they were visible. Holy shit. I closed my eyes and turned my face to the other side, but her desperate moans would never let me forget the image, her presence.

"For fuck's sake, Roy, I've told you to drop that fucking slut for a bit. We got something more important here."

"What?!" He replied. I didn't see what he did, but the woman screamed. I just squinted harder. Stan was very close to me, holding his breath. "What the hell do I want with those little fuckers?"

"Are you retarded or what? Don't you know what they are?"

"What do I care?! Fuck it. Just finish them already."

"Are you crazy, Roy? Pay attention here." I opened my eyes because I felt the man in white's hand very close to my face. He squeezed my jaw tightly, forcing me to look forward, gesturing with the hand holding the gun before pressing the barrel against my temple. I froze. The steam came out of my mouth because of the cold; I began to breathe heavier, feeling this frightened burn coming from the inside out. I blinked slowly. I knew this would happen at some point. In some strange way, the cold touch of that gun in my skin was less painful than if it was threatening Stan or Christophe. "Don't be fooled just because they're neat little boys. Will you take a look at what they have inside, this shit is a gold mine right here. They are rebels. La Resistance, is that what you boys call it?" The man mimicked Christophe's accent.

Finally, Roy dropped the woman to the ground and put his hands on his hips, running his fingers through the grip of the gun he kept in his pants. He didn't take it out, though. Roy looked even younger than the other one, despite being bald and a little more thicker.

"What's up with that? Isn't the order to just shoot them when you find one of these little shits? What are you waiting for?"

"If you'll shoot them, aim for the leg. They want to catch these bastards very much alive." The man in white looked back at me, the gun still well pressed against my head. I swallowed hard. Breathing felt impossible. My legs were shaking. He smiled as he realized that. Stan felt restless at my side, stepping forward, but I didn't dare turning to face him. I didn't want to move a muscle. I knew he was glaring at the sapper and I silently prayed he didn't do anything stupid that would put him in more danger. "Listen." The man said in a curious tone. I noticed that his eyes were always turning to Christophe, but he still kept a distance. That guy was afraid of Christophe, I could see it in his eyes. "Do you know what will happen to you? What happens when your little breed gets caught? At best, at the very best, you'll look back to this day and think, 'hey, that good fellow could have been kind enough to blow up my skull right there.' Dying now is the best any of you can wish for, you worms. But you don't deserve it."

Suddenly, Christophe made the first move. He trotted like a horse to stand between me and the man in white; It took me a few seconds to believe that he would do something so stupid. It was exactly what I feared that Stan would do. For a moment, I was sure it would end like this. He was done for. But for some reason, the sapper laughed bitterly and lowered the gun, trying to seem in control. And he was indeed. It was a good disguise for how scared he actually was too. Christophe pushed me back a bit, making a nod for Stan to take a step back.

"Will you look at that, we got a brave one here."

"Jesus, Franklin. Stop messing around." Roy said.

He looked at woman at his feet, who had huddled in a fetal position, hugging her own knees tightly, crawling a little away from him. She also stared at us with the huge wet eyes. I had the wildest curly blond hair I had ever seen. God, she was the only person who shouldn't have been in that situation. I made eye contact with her for what felt like an eternity. I couldn't see what the color of her eyes was. All I saw was fear and perhaps a little pity. She couldn't be older than us, she was just a girl. Eighteen, nineteen at most. And she was so beautiful. I wondered if she had a mother to mourn her death if none of us came out that alley alive. I also asked myself if my mom would make up some lie to cover up the fact that her son would have died as a traitor to the country. Would she be as creative as she was with my brother's "death"?

I don't want to make it seem like I was mentally distant as everything was happening around me. There is no way to turn your mind off before the eminent risk of death or something worse. But time seemed to stretch to the point that things were happening in slow motion, including the conversation between those two unruly men who seemed to have no idea what they were doing.

"Hey. What do I do with the whore, huh?" Roy asked, which made the girl hide her face in her knees.

"Just fucking kill her, I don't care. It's one less bitch polluting the street. We have to call for reinforcements."

"But I didn't even have a chance to fuck her yet!"

"No... No, please, for the love of God!" She cried, clinging to Roy's leg. There was hair covering her face. She tried to cover her breasts with her arms, scratching his thigh as she dug her long nails, talking nonsense, stammering. "You have a mother, don't you? I know you do, sir. Please, do what you want with me and let me go, I swear by my mother that I'll never walk the streets after curfew again, I'll never bother anyone! I swear!"

"Shut up, you miserable whore, I'm trying to think." Franklin replied. Roy hit the girl's face with his knee, which almost made me forget about the guns and run to help her. Or rather kill the motherfucker with my bare hands. She covered her nose and screamed in pain, writhing on the ground.

It was so fucking painful to watch another human being reaching that point of despair, throwing herself at this rapist motherfucker's feet. But the girl was not ready to die. She still had life impulse, that fire became increasingly clear. I would rather take a shot right between the eyes before begging those men for anything.

Then I heard a shot. It was all I didn't want to hear. All I didn't have the strength to hear. It was deafening, even though I had already begun to get used to the sound of guns. And then there was another one, I heard it as I threw myself on the floor, desperately looking from one side to the other, my brain feeding me with all kinds of horrible images of Stan lying in a pool of blood or... Fuck. I thought I'd throw up.

But I saw Stan's feet. He was also squatting, slowly lifting his torso to understand what had happened. And looking me right in the eyes. We stared at each other in horror for no more than a second before hearing Christophe running like a madman toward Roy. And there were screams. Many cries, familiar cries. Those didn't come from the woman's lungs. No, she was in the same catatonic state we were.

I felt warm blood touching my palms that rested on the concrete ground. I looked down. The man in white was weakly struggling two feet away from me. His before immaculate clothes were now tinged in red. There was a hole in his stomach, from which blood gushed continuously, and there was another hole that could not be seen. His neck, maybe? No, he'd be dead already if that was the case. It was a lot of blood, a fucking pool of it. Dark thick blood. I felt dizzy by the tinnitus of the burst. I tried to get up, resting my hands smeared with blood on my knee. The screams got even louder, right behind me. They came from the window.

I looked over my shoulder. Fuck, there were too many things happening at once. There was Tweek, his eyes more widened than ever, his hands in front of his face, no longer holding the gun which now lay beside his feet on the floor. I didn't see it then, but I didn't have to see the gun to understand what had happened. He was having a panic attack. Hyperventilating like crazy, like he couldn't see anything in front of your eyes, holding onto the windowsill and shouting repeatedly: "What have I done?!"

And immediately, Christophe ran up Roy - who was still unarmed, he didn't have the time to draw his weapon - and knocked him to the ground with the weight of his body, both falling on top of the girl's leg. Stan shouted Christophe's name as a warning, but it was useless. He already had both hands on that helpless bastard's throat, and Roy struggled under his body, almost managing to knock him twice before losing strength. I didn't see the whole thing happen because I ran toward Tweek, although I had no idea how my legs were able to carry me to him. I cut my hand on a shard of glass that was on the windowsill as I jumped inside the store and held him tightly.

"Shhh, it's okay." I told him, lying to myself. "It's okay, Tweek. Be quiet."

Once Tweek felt a body that he could lean on, he just collapsed. That's how it works. I let all his weight fall in my arms, kneeling beside him on the floor, very close to Christophe's gun. Tweek grabbed the fabric of my shirt in despair, letting out a shrill cry, shaking his head against my chest, bobbing like he was insane. And I just held him, trying to keep him from getting hurt on the broken glass spread around the floor. Outside, I heard horrors happening. It felt like it would never end. Christophe grabbed Roy by the hair and slammed his head against the concrete repeatedly, emitting hideous sounds as he broke the skull, while Stan screamed that was enough, telling him to stop. He didn't. I think it was only then that I began to feel tears running down my face.

"What did I do, Kyle?" Tweek muttered under his breath, with a thin crying voice, his swollen face pressed against my chest. I just I took him as my mother did to me in my childhood, when I had a scratch and wouldn't stop crying.

"You did good, Tweek. You..." There seemed to be no air in my lungs. I closed my eyes. I could hear Christophe and Stan raging with one another, although I couldn't understand the words they used. It didn't matter. The adrenaline was running so hard through my body that all my senses felt different. I just felt heat. I was covered in sweat, even though it was cold as fuck. Sweat and blood. My stained hands also spread red all over Tweek's blond hair as I stroked him, like he was a child. "You did very good."


	16. The Fall

November 11, 3644

The woman's name was Bebe. Bebe Stevens, she made sure to inform us. Apparently, it wasn't a nickname, it was the actual name assigned to her at birth. A fanciful name that matched her figure. Her clothes were dirty, but they still had some kind of exuberance of a really trashy cabaret. Her top, which was torn apart, mimicked fake velvet. She wore a leather corselet, her dark green plaid skirt was also torn. There was enough light to identify the colors. She wore too much blush on her cheeks, her dark red lipstick was completely smudged. In her eyes, she had drawn eyelashes under her lower eyelids, but the tears made the black ooze down the cheeks. At this point, she wasn't crying anymore.

When Tweek finally calmed down, I managed to convince him to stay inside by himself for a while. Even though he was trembling in fetal position, he obeyed. I didn't want him to see the bodies - to be honest, even I didn't want to see them. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw; Roy's skull was completely destroyed, an ocean of blood under him. He didn't even resemble a human being anymore. Christophe was filthy, especially his hands. There were drops of blood all over his face, many of them. I didn't look at Roy' for more than two seconds; I turned my head and closed my eyes, fighting back the urge to vomit. Christophe began to speak. "We gotta get the fuck out of here."

"It's too dangerous, you've said so yourself." Stan said, sounding upset as hell. There was vomit near his foot on the floor. He covered his mouth and tried to get his breath under control. He was very close to the woman, crouched beside her, probably trying to help her before I arrived.

"It is. But we remained hidden before and look how well that turned out. With these two here... C'mon, hurry up, we have to move things inside."

"Wait! Please, wait!" The woman finally shouted. She got up slowly, revealing her long legs, the huge rip on her pantyhose exposing her thigh. She was covering her breasts using both arms. Stan also got up and Bebe immediately grabbed his wrist. Christophe looked impatiently over his shoulder. She stepped away from man's corpse. "You saved my life. Please, don't leave me here..." She was shaking from head to toe. New tears formed in her eyes. "Other sappers will come here... You have no idea what they do when they find whores."

The three of us looked at each other. Christophe and Stan, in particular, exchanged a tense look. Probably because Stan wouldn't accept to leave her behind and the Mole wouldn't accept bringing her with. To my surprise, Christophe turned to take two steps toward her. I couldn't see his expression. My gaze alternated between the lifeless bodies, all the blood that had spread around that place and the three people who stared nervously at each other.

"Can you walk?" Christophe asked Bebe, who fervently nodded. "Great. Help carry our shit."

That's how Bebe joined us. This simple, almost funny way.

Stan didn't want to be there. I knew he blamed me somehow. And I didn't blame him for it; my conscience tried to strengthen empty thoughts like "you didn't ask him to follow you," but the truth was that, somehow, I did ask him. I knew him. I knew he couldn't sleep well without my body next to him and knew how much he cared about me. It was our code, that's how we functioned. I would have done the same thing if I knew he was lying to me or hiding something, even if it were to protect me. He resented me, that was very clear.

Gregory wasn't home when we arrived in the middle of the night with Tweek in a state of shock, a semi-naked prostitute and Christophe visibly pissed off. It was for the best, I really didn't want to have to explain things to him. We lay Tweek down on the couch, I fed him some sugar water in his mouth and gave him a sleeping pill, Stan gave Bebe some of my clothes so she could cover herself and led her to the bathroom, asking if she wanted to take bath. She was bloodstained.

Meanwhile, Christophe peered through the window shutters as if he was expecting the sappers or the military police to be doing their rounds. Maybe he was hoping Gregory would arrive soon, but this shouldn't happen before daybreak. During the rest of the night, he was still standing in the shadow, arms crossed, thinking. Thinking so hard that I could almost see smoke coming out of his ears. He was taking on the responsibility to fix that shit. He should also be thinking of the Monarchs who spent the night waiting. It was only then that I remembered the bomb, the things the Mole said, but I made sure to scare these thoughts away because it wasn't the right time to deal with them.

Stan didn't come back from the corridor after showing Bebe the way to the bathroom. I went after him.

I found our room's door ajar, a bit of light coming through the poorly closed curtains. Stan sat on the bed, his back to me. I couldn't see his eyes, but the image of them sprouted in my mind, and for some reason, I knew just how empty they would be. I approached him as cautiously as possible, as if he were a deer I was afraid to scare off. I sat beside him, a few inches away just to be safe, and put my hand over his. It took him three or four seconds to pull it away.

"Stan." I softly called him in the dark. I only saw the silhouette of his face, that face that seemed to have been carved by the gods, if such things existed. Perhaps out of desperation or stubbornness, I took my hand to his knee and squeezed it affectionately. "Are you alright?"

He smiled, but it was smile full of bitterness. He slightly lowered his head and shook it, looking so unhappy, so confused.

"How?"

I paused.

"I know." I whispered.

And I couldn't find anything to say. I wanted to tell the truth, to say I sneaked out because saying no to Christophe was so hard, he had a strange power over me, but that it made me sick. I wanted to tell him that he was right, that I wouldn't resist his way of doing things, that I wanted to preserve our humanity as much as him and I was so afraid to get lost in all that, I didn't want to kill anyone. I wanted to tell him we could still quit everything and escape to another place, a better place, where there were no guns to our heads and we wouldn't lose each other. But then I would no longer be telling him the truth, I would just be lulling his heart. I wanted to take away any pain he was feeling at that moment. And I couldn't. We can't really protect anyone in this world.

So I said nothing. I laid my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, trying to make him understand that I was there with him, that I was still me, that I was still his. Stan didn't resist it.

November 12, 3644

In less than an hour, night would fall. Dusk was my favorite time in South Park; the city was surprisingly beautiful taken by the orange light of the setting sun. In other circumstances, it would have been nice to sit on the lawn behind the university with a green apple tea cup and argue with Cartman about something dumb that didn't really matter for either of us, disagreeing because of the simple pleasure of challenge each other. That's what we would be doing a few months ago, like normal young people fulfilling their social function to contribute positively to our great nation. A great nation of shit. You can't imagine how easy it is to conform to the system that is set until you begin to understand it. That's what I lived every day at that time. It was like a smokescreen had disappeared before my eyes. Instead of watching South Park from the top of the hills, exposed to sun and the green that surrounded the outskirts of our university – also, a few wild animals that sporadically appeared - I was surrounded by the high walls of the filthy dark hangar, covered in sweat. My hands were throbbing, clenched in violent fists. My bare feet were fixed on the ground, as it was the first thing I learned: you need a strong base in your feet before punching someone's face. Barefoot, the chances of slipping were smaller. The floor was so dusty that make it easier with the friction. In fact, everything in that hangar was covered in dust, including the huge boxes that surrounded us.

After the incident with the sappers, came the morning after and we had to deal with it. We had to walk forward. We had to keep fighting. I hadn't seen Tweek again and I thought that would have been the last straw for him to give up. I was wrong, but I'd only find that out later.

Christophe grabbed me from behind, pressing his arm against my neck. He was pressing it so hard that his veins bulged, his muscles quivered. I could feel the firm texture of his bare skin against mine, at least on my shoulder, the area exposed by the dark gray loose tank top I wore. That brush was strangely erotic and I was half hard almost every time I trained with him. I dug my nails into his flesh, feeling his soft hair covering that rough skin. He grunted over the strength it too him to lift my feet off the ground, and just as he had taught me, that was the chance I used to boost my body forward and unbalance him. He didn't actually fall, but he did let go of me. I turned to face him and stared into his animal eyes; he was covered with sweat, his tanned skin gleaming as he ran the back of his hand over his mouth to wipe off the sweat, his chest rising and falling rapidly by irregular breathing. It took no more than a second for him to throw another punch, but I was quick enough to dodge, immediately going for his rigid abdomen that he made the mistake of leaving exposed. A primary and stupid mistake I was almost sure: it had been on purpose. With the other hand, I grabbed his wrist and twisted it, which brought his body closer to mine. He didn't need much effort to get rid of my fist.

Something happened with Christophe's eyes when we trained. His pupils dilated like he was a predator. We both could barely breathe and there was something so exciting about the clammy feeling of his skin against mine, the coarseness of those hands that caused me so much curiosity. Sometimes I could feel that his cock also hard. He was wearing one of those black tank tops, so old that the fabric was barely covering his torso, parts of his chest got exposed by the movement of his body. I could see the hairs on his chest, a slightly lighter color than his hair, and often I wondered if those went down his stomach too. Every time I hit him in the abdomen, I could feel how hard the muscles there were, the result of years of work. So many images troubled me with Christophe's body so close to mine, his scent intoxicating me, robbing my concentration. Everything about him turned me on, and the more turned on I got, the harder I wanted to punch him. I had lost control many times and he always allowed me to, taking every punch without flinching, waiting for an opportunity to strike back.

I knew he felt it too. The way he dug his fingernails on my arm and pulled me against him that afternoon... I was sure, for a second, that he would kiss me. I could almost feel the rude touch of his short beard on my skin. His mouth looked so dry, half-open and exposing his teeth, so fleshy and juicy that I was intimidated to look at it for more than a second. I'm not sure how long we stood like that. His damned honey-colored eyes were burning on me, unblinking, studying my expression illegibly. My legs immediately went limp, I had muscle spasms over what the tiredness and Christophe DeLorne caused on my body. I was so fucking angry at that man. His face got a little closer to mine, enough so I could feel his warm breath against my skin. This was the trigger I needed to push him back with all the accumulated strength in my arms, noisily clashing my hands in his broad chest. The adrenaline of the fight was still running in our bodies. Christophe's immediate response came crashing: he clenched his fist and hammered it in my chin with a rage that hadn't been there before. Or at least I'd never noticed. That anger had probably always been there.

The punch was enough to bewilder all my senses. I had to hold on to his arm to keep from falling, completely losing the function of my legs, forgetting how to stand. We punched each other, but it had never been like this. He had never truly hit me to hurt me. When I let go, I took my hand to my own chin and I lowered my head, grunting, overcome by the pain that was spreading all over my head. My stomach lurched and I bent down, thinking for a second that would throw up. It felt like my jaw had been dislocated. I knew it wasn't that bad, but fuck, it hurt. I still hadn't experienced real pain at that point of my life to know the difference between a broken jaw and the normal pain of being punched in the face.

"Kyle." He called me, but his voice was too far to my ears.

"It's fine." I lied, almost voiceless. My eyes were watering deliberately, I could feel the tears mixing with my sweat. I let out a spontaneous groan, squeezing my fingers in my own flesh, still holding my jaw, trying to feel something other than ache. My nose also felt broken, I didn't know why. Shit, I couldn't even see right.

"Kyle..." He repeated, softer this time. I could hear him a little better. He pulled me against him, trying to take my hand off my jaw. "Let me see."

"I said it's fine." I replied gruffly, firm, stepping away from him like a drunk person. My face contorted involuntarily in a grimace of pain and, for some reason, I didn't want him to see me like that. So I turned my back to him. God, I felt dizzy, literally intoxicated. He messed with things inside of me that I didn't even know existed and it became increasingly impossible to ignore that. There was so much anger, so much burning, this corrosive boil that made my legs weak, as if they would give at any time. Of course, this also was due to muscle spasms, the workout cramps. My body was on full alert and it felt like my skin would literally burn if Christophe touch me again.

My stomach still hurt like hell. Great, that's just what I needed, to throw up now too. As bad as the pain in my face was, the blood rushed to my head and blushed my hot cheeks for other reasons; I wanted to disappear from there. I was ashamed, but above all, I was afraid. Afraid of what he made me feel.

I staggered further away from him and crouched down like a drunk to pick up the bottle of water that was on the floor, pouring the content on my face. My hair was already quite wet with sweat. The water was at room temperature, not as cold as I would like, but it felt good nonetheless. I shook my head a little to compose myself, but I ended up feeling worse. I ended up sitting down without wanting to; my body just gave in when I put the bottle back in place. I landed with both hands on the dusty ground, grunting frustratedly, squinting as my eyes were still full of tears.

I could feel those fucking eyes burning into my skin on the side of my head, on my exposed arm, on my legs, on my shoulder. He didn't even made a point to look away from me, because he simply didn't want to make things easier. He didn't want to pretend that nothing was happening. I thought I would throw up my own heart when I heard that hoarse voice saying "I want you."

The air went in and out my lungs so fast that I began to get dizzy. What he said was much worse than the punch. I felt like I'd been shot.

"No. Don't… Don't even say that."

"When the fuck are you gonna stop pretending that nothing is happening?!"

"_Nothing _is happening!" I don't know where I got the strength to get up from and trot toward him, one fist clenched, the other loose, pointing my index finger in his face. I didn't get close enough so that he could touch me. I slammed that hand on my own chest with an open palm and the area burned, inside and out. "I'm taken! That's not gonna change. It doesn't matter how you feel, it doesn't matter how I feel. Talking about it will only hurt us."

"You..." He murmured in a low voice, but held it back. He rolled his lips inside his mouth and tried to turn his back to me.

"Me what?" I couldn't help asking, even though I knew I shouldn't. He didn't answer me right away, so I got closer to grab his arm and force him to turn to me. There was this electric feel when our skins touched, I didn't know whether it was desire or anger, but I didn't give a shit. He could feel it too, that's why his entire body turned abruptly to me, as if I had just marked with burning iron. "Me what?!" I screamed.

"You're too much for him!" Christophe shouted, spitting in my face inadvertently. "You... Fuck, Kyle." He squinted and ran both hands over his face, then up through his hair, smoothing them back. "You're too much even for me. You... You're a fucking force of nature, that fucking energy you have... You're not good for him. You're not good for each other."

"Shut the fuck up. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"He doesn't get you!"

"Oh, and you do?!"

He just stared back at me with red eyes, holding his breath for a few seconds and I thought I could hear his heart pounding inside his chest, but it was actually mine own.

"No, I don't get you." Christophe finally answered me, his accent making it almost hard to understand what he was mumbling. For a split second, I thought he was smiling a bit. "But fuck, I want to."

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up, you can't be saying shit like that!" I said in a pleading voice. He stepped forward, but I jumped like a cat to get further away from him, my hands starting to shake again. "Don't you fucking touch me."

"Kyle."

"Fuck you. I'm out of here."

I shook my head, subtly at first, then more forcefully. I grabbed my backpack, my shoes and went out trotting, running away from him to avoid the risk that he held me back, although the Mole didn't even try to. I ran barefoot through that damn wet forest, pressing my shoes against my chest, letting the tears come with no hesitation. I cut my foot with something along the way, but I'd only notice it the next day.

When I got home, for divine intervention or anything of that sort, there was no one there. I was filthy, with a swollen face and an erection. I took a shower, masturbated and probably cried a little, but there was plenty of hot water, so I couldn't tell. I was a lot calmer when Stan came home. As soon as he entered the room, without even waiting for him to take off his thick coat, I hugged him. He knew something was wrong. It was the day before the President's birthday. He asked me if I was afraid. I just kissed him.

We had sex that night. He hastily took off his coat, grabbed my face and stuck his tongue in my mouth. It was exactly what I needed. While I took him inside me on the bed, lying on my stomach, biting my own wrist to try to keep it quiet, I separated my thighs even further to feel him deeper and swore to myself that I could keep it that way forever. He kissed my shoulders, my back, pressed his chest against me and we became one. And at that moment, I wasn't afraid anymore. It was the only place I felt safe those days, when we were hidden in our room and he touched me like that. I couldn't live without him, I hoped with all my heart that he knew that.

That wasn't about Christophe, at least not entirely. It was about reaching a limit. With Christophe, with the revolution, things where all coming to the point of no return, and I didn't even think I would return if I could. We were changing, all of us. Christophe didn't come to my mind when Stan was inside me, but his warm body holding me from behind while we trained was always in me somewhere, it was that raw feeling that kept coming back to me. That punch. His sweat on my skin.

Then came dawn. I hadn't slept, not even for a second. I just laid there in Stan's arms, naked and warm, staring at the window as a new day came. The last day, maybe. I was finally ready for it.

November 13, 3644

It had been a beautiful parade.

The President's birthday was always a carefully planned event, where thousands of model citizens demonstrated their value, sparing no effort to offer our greatest ruler a worthy tribute. I loved to watch the parades as a boy. I'd give Ike a piggyback ride and I remembered Mom (at least that's how I still called her at the time) yelling that we were careful and didn't get too far away from her. I always wanted to see things more closely. I also wanted to get away from her, because my mother always watched the parade with tears in her eyes. The parade usually told the History of our nation, as it was an event in celebration to the Old America. The band played President's favorite song and the national anthem. The whole town was there, like every year.

But it was different this time, though it didn't yet look like it. My heart was beating tight to see the number of children present in that kind of ceremony. Entire families came out to celebrate, drink the free craft beer that was distributed on the streets, next to the hot dog stand that was my favorite part of the event when I was a kid. There were fireworks sometimes; not every year, but that year, there were. Streamers and people parading in costumes in the American flag colors, which were the same colors as the flag of France and England, not coincidentally. Perhaps it was because of this kind of alliance that Christophe and Gregory were allowed to walk free on the street. The nation despised everything that was foreign, and every American was taught to cultivate such contempt, but there was also a need for political coalitions. Anyway, that kind of hatred little belonged to the civilian population. The government's attempts to aggrandize our nation were so vain to people who went hungry; we didn't see ourselves as superior beings because we couldn't even feed our own children.

Well. The band of horns passed by, and between the heads, across the street, Christophe and Gregory were standing. Gregory had his chin up and a smile on his face, Christophe had both hands in his coat pocket and a frown, chewing something. Tobacco? Most likely. There were other people with them, who might or might not have been the Monarchs. I didn't know their faces yet. We weren't all in one place; We were scattered everywhere, among the families who participated in the festivities. I wondered how many of them had brought their children to celebrate the dictator's birthday just over the fear of being seen as infidels. Worshiping the President was almost a religious act. You had no choice but to worship him or pretend you did.

My mother, whose worship was quite genuine, would make a speech at the podium set up in the center of the city square, as soon as the parade was over.

Kenny was right behind me and I could feel his anxiety radiating. He pinched the fabric of his pants in a nervous tic, chewing his lower lip and compulsively moving his left leg. He was scared, it was very clear. I watched him from time to time to provide a assuring look over something I couldn't really assure. Stan was beside me, looking much calmer than I expected. And Cartman was in a van, keeping a few things that we would need to use, but the avenue was closed for the passage of vehicles. He parked on the upper street. I wasn't exactly aware of the whereabouts of anyone else.

"You okay?" I asked Stan.

He didn't answer me. But I saw his hand covering the handle of the gun kept in his pants, even though it was hidden by his shirt.

We were divided into small groups with small tasks. I wasn't entirely sure what would happen because my brain repeated my obligation a thousand times. And I couldn't fail. I couldn't even stumble. The whole timing had been meticulously calculated so everything would be simultaneous. We just needed to wait for Gregory to wink at us - that was the first sign - and then we would have to go, excusing ourselves to walk through the crowd that surrounded us. We couldn't run though, because that could invoke unnecessary attention. Our faces were exposed, our disguise was being just another good citizen watching the parade.

When the last group marched with the drums, followed by a car carrying the huge wooden statue of the President covered by flowers, Gregory winked. Kenny had thought he had given us the signal a few times before that, but we held him by the arm. This time, he was the first to walk in a haste, and we allowed him close behind. There were sappers everywhere as a security measure, men in white with guns, a huge contrast with the children and animals. Even the dogs earned free food on the President's birthday. It was a day of celebration.

I looked around before going in the alley behind Kenny to make sure that no one was watching us. Kenny pushed the stuck door with his shoulder. The door was on the side of old brick building that we needed to enter, because going through the front door was too risky. Stan was about to offer Kenny help when the door opened with a bang muffled by the horns that still played. We entered the ware room of the building as quickly as possible. Stan checked his pocket watch as we climbed the narrow stairs. That building didn't even have have an elevator, and if had one, we probably wouldn't have used it. There was no one inside. I was covered in cold sweat inside my shirt, clutching the ancient handrail which trembled with the pressure of our steps. My muscles trembled too.

It was eight floors, if I remember correctly. It may have been seven or nine, I have no idea. The three of us ended up in a narrow corridor where the walls seemed to be closing between us. Stan walked in front now because Kenny seemed hesitant, looking from side to side while checking out the numbers on the doors. 804 was the apartment we looked for. Stan had the key. His hand was shaking as he put it in the lock, but he took a deep breath, getting it together.

When opening the door, he sneezed. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and entered the tiny, dusty apartment with a kind of confidence that worried me. Cartman had brought the huge wrapped up sign the night before, and now that fabric roll lay in the middle of the empty room, the sun penetrating the closed windows, the rays showing the particles of dust that danced around the air when our feet touched the wooden floor. The two of them went straight on the heavy, immense sign. In the meantime, I ran to open up the windows, but not before spying on what was happening down there. The parade was over and all the people were slowly going to the podium on the square, where the speeches would soon begin. Everyone seemed distracted enough, but the window's glass was so filthy that my sight was limited. I had to use a crazy amount of strength to open the first window, the second one was a little easier. The window was large enough that we could pass the heavy brown paper roll through it, carrying it over the shoulder, distributing the weight between the three of us. No one was looking up, at least from where we could see. Kenny stuck his face out of the other window and waited until I pushed the roll toward him, using the windowsill for support. I held that sign in my arms like it was a living being, trying not to think of what would happen if that damn thing fell.

On the opposite building, Clyde and Craig did the same thing. I wondered if Tweek was there with them. He hadn't appeared on the window.

"Where's the flashlight?" I asked, sounding distressed.

"Here." Stan replied, getting it from his pocket.

Kenny and I were tightly tying up the sign on hooks outside of the building, one on each side. Sweat dripped from my forehead and I had my tongue peaking out the corner of my mouth without realizing it. The sign was still firmly attached by ties at the center.

"And the scissors?" I asked again.

"Got it." Kenny said with a proud smile, trying to look calm, getting a pair of red scissors from inside his coat and cutting the air with it, as if to demonstrate that he knew how to use them very well.

I took another good look at my own knot while Stan checked on Kenny's. I rubbed both hands quickly, even though they felt really hot. Sweaty, even. I opened the first two buttons of my shirt and took a deep breath. Craig and Clyde were still by the window and it also looked like they were done with the job, but I couldn't really see their faces because of the distance. It was a broad avenue.

Some people had looked up and caught what we were doing, but they didn't seem to find it terribly unusual. They probably believed it would be a commemorative sign, like many others that adorned the buildings with the President's face.

Stan checked his watch again. I peered over his shoulder; in eighteen seconds, it would be 04:30 pm.

"Okay." Stan muttered under his heavy breathing. "All right then."

He was ready, flashlight in hand. He sent them the sign: flashing it twice in the window. "We are ready," that's what it meant. It took over five seconds, and I was starting to hyperventilate when two flashes of light came from the other side. It was difficult to identify it under the sun's light, but we were sure they had done it. It was so rare that the sun crossed through the pollution layer that covered the city, but the President must have ordered it especially for his birthday that the sun made an appearance in the four corners of America.

Downstairs, my mother was waiting on the little stage, ready to begin. I couldn't see her at the time, but recorded images by the press covering the event showed that robust lady in her best blue suit with a red ruffled shirt underneath, adjusting the microphone.

"Now." Stan said as it turned 04:30 pm.

And Kenny cut the rope that held up the rolled sign. I hadn't expected that damn thing to make so much noise, but it did. The weight of brown paper unrolling produced a bang loud enough that all faces turned to see it. The band was no longer playing because my mother had cleared the throat when she was ready to start talking, so everything was silent and all ears were attentive. All eyes were raped by the following saying:

"DEATH TO THE PRESIDENT"

And on the opposite building:

"OUR VOICE WILL BE HEARD"

Silence generated a terrible malaise. For a second, nothing happened. It felt like a hand had reached my bowels and squeezed them. I had no time to stand still and contemplate the effects that the message would cause; we had to run, and fast, because in less than a few seconds the sappers would receive orders to invade the buildings. As they entered from the front, we went out the back. As we ran down the stairs in the very speed of light (or as close to it as a human being can reach), my mother was the first person to break the excruciating silence that had fallen over crowd, shouting loudly through the air of the square while pounding the pulpit with her fists. "Death to the rebels!" This was also something I would only witnessed through recordings.

And when we got to the alley again, there was no silence at all. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of excited voices, some shouting in favor of the President, echoing my mother's words, but other civilians were shouting for resistance. Everyone could feel that something was about to happen and they didn't want to be there to see it. Some began to move away, others wanted to get closer to the stage. The chaos helped us to infiltrate the crowd again. That's when we lost Kenny. But Stan reached his hand back and grabbed my wrist with frightening strength, pulling me with him among the people. In the midst of the distraction, the raised American flags on the poles of every street were already dripping red paint, so similar to dripping blood. I didn't know who had been responsible for throwing paint buckets on the flags, but whoever it was, they worked really fucking fast. The sappers had a hard time identifying who was shouting on their support and who was shouting for their death. There were too many people. Too many. Commanders stood out and ordered the sappers to hold fire.

We were too far from the pulpit, I could barely hear my mother screaming into the microphone. "This scum will pay with their blood! Get them! Take each one of them!"

Then my mother's voice was cut off and a poor quality recording of Gregory's voice replaced her in the speakers with his offensive British accent.

"_Attention. I ask __each one__ of you __for a moment of__ attention_.

_Today is a very special da__y__. 58 years ago, __a man__ was born. __A very important man, very important for__ the __H__istory of America. __A m__an who carries __the__ anti-democratic legacy __as__ Presiden__t__ of this __dear__ Nation. Do not think our attack is personal. Do not think, either, that we want to ruin th__is man's__ festivities. __We'd only like to pay our tribute and__ congratulate him for his great deeds. _"

The officers on the stage shouted at each other, at employees working at the event, yelling at them to cut off the wires of the recording or something. They were in panic. They didn't understand where the voice came from, how someone could have broken into their complex security system. They were unsuccessful. The speakers were still playing the message.

"_Let's congratulate him for __leav__ing__ 300 million Americans in poverty __so he could__ feed a war that __has__ killed 500,000 patriotic soldiers and 600,000 Canadian soldiers __so far__. __Let's congratulate him for__ exiling, torturing and shoot__ing foreign people__, __for __clos__ing__ the borders, __for __treat__ing__ the __N__ation as his private dollhouse. For __making sure that the__ big businessmen __and__ bankers __have an increasingly larger feast__, __for__financing__ the bloodshed, for ordering his men to shoot at close range __anyone__ who opposes his government, in broad daylight, __terrorizing his population__._ _For__ naturalizing violence. But as I said, __please,__don't__ think __our__ attack is personal. For the President is only __the __symbol __of a system__ that explores each __one __of you. And when we cut __off __his head, it will also be symbolic. Stand up. Resist. Join us_. "

While Gregory's voice filled the open space, the first shot was heard. A sapper shot a man who raised his arm in support. It happened right in front of me. And let me say, when a euphoric crowd hears a shot, that's when chaos is completely established and the entire social order goes down the drain. There is nothing left. Basically, we all become animals. People started to run, but many still resisted because, in the crowd, you also feel safe. You're part of the whole. It was that exact feeling of union that they were trying to avoid. They certainly didn't want to enrage the city when the people were all together, thousands of them. The sappers were many, but not enough.

Stan let go of my hand to run toward the old man who had been shot, holding him in his arms, trying to hold him up so people wouldn't run him over. I tried to follow him, I really did, but the mass of desperate people ran in the opposite direction, carrying me away from him. I heard him screaming my name, and screamed his, but I could no longer see him. I heard another shot. People were screaming everywhere. And I felt like I should yell something to those people. '_Stay together, __you're not cowards__, stay __fo__r __your__ children_.' but caught myself silent as I tried to fight back the flow of the tide because, deep down, I knew that those shots weren't going to be the only ones. And the less people needed to die that day… Fucking damn. The price of change is too high for anyone to bear.

My biggest effort was to reach the sidewalk. I would be more exposed, but perhaps there I could find the others. I elbowed a poor woman right in the face by accident, or perhaps by instinct because she had pushed me hard. I looked back the whole time, hoping to at least see Stan's head, that black hair I would know anywhere. But there was nothing. I wasn't tall enough.

For about five seconds, I just wanted to cry. I questioned what the hell I was doing there. But that was it, five second, that's the only time you have to suffer with that much adrenaline running through your blood.

It became much worse when the explosion came.

In the chaos, in the distance, it felt like a bomb had went off. The sound shook the streets and buildings, and what little was left of sanity in people – the sappers including - disappeared. No one knew what had happened, but no one was interested to know. People just ran. The shots started, not just one or two anymore. The sound of the explosion had been so deafening that I couldn't move for a second, everything was blurry around me. There were people throwing themselves to the ground, but the running feet did not stop for them. I did the same when I got on the sidewalk and landed next to a half bitten lollipop that a child had left behind. My heart ached. I was next to a hot dog stand, the owner was nowhere to be found. I crawled behind the stand, looking around. Staring at all the faces I could, seeking Stan, seeking Kenny, Cartman... Christophe. Even my mother. Any familiar face that I make sure was okay. People were slamming on the doors, begging people to let them in. And the sounds... Holy shit, the sounds. Sappers didn't try identify who was rebellious or not. They shot bodies against the walls and also ran from bullets. I had a gun with me.

You train with fucking bottles and apples, but never think you'll be ready for this shit.

Then I saw a familiar face.

From that angle, with my face close to the ground, I saw Tweek lying stomach down in the middle of the asphalt, with hundreds of feet passing over what used to be his body. He screamed, still half-alive, but no one seemed to hear. No one. They just ran. And his thin hands reached out to grab some of the ankles, but they had stepped with all their weight on his skull, God knows how many times, to the point that his hair was just a mass of blood, his hands had no skin, his clothes were torn, his face covered in blood, flayed. His nose looked dislocated. I got up so fast that my hands got burnt scraping the cement. And I screamed. And I ran. And I pushed every human being in front of me with all my hatred, calling for Tweek's name a hundred times, ready to draw that fucking gun and shoot each one of motherfuckers who walked over him. But something caught me, keeping me from running back to the crowd.

A pair of strong arms grabbed me and restrained me like it was nothing. I hit back against that hard, warm chest, and didn't have to turn around to know who those arms belonged to, because the familiar smell of musk and smoke invaded my nostrils.

"Let me go! Let me go, you son of a bitch, he's still alive! Just fucking let go of me! Tweek!" I screamed with a shrill voice at that point, struggling in his arms, but I realized that I had no strength. Not at that moment. The move followed its course and Tweek wasn't writhing anymore. I still tried to free myself from Christophe's grip, but he kept pulling me further and further from Tweek, dragging my feet as if they didn't even touch the floor. So I fell apart.

"Kyle, you can't help him." He whispered in my ear, his voice reassuring.

I leaned forward and felt my face all wet, tears streaming from my eyes and nose. My face twisted into a grimace of pain, like they had stuck a knife in my stomach. Now I could only whispered. "I can't just leave him, I can't..."

He went for the first alley he could find. This one was really narrow, to the point that he had to push me to walk in front because we wouldn't fit in there all tangled the way we were. He felt safe enough to let go of me, confident now that I wouldn't run back. I regained strength in my legs over fear, but had to grope the filthy wall like a blind man. That path led into a dark space between two buildings with no exit to another street, closed by a rusty grid. I leaned on some trash cans and started vomiting.

"Hey, hey." He whispered behind me, squeezing my neck with his cold hand, which was a relief. My head was boiling. "Are you hurt?"

I guess I had nothing but stomach acid to put out, but that's what came out of me. In small quantities and with no subsequent relief. Christophe turned my limp body, rushed to check on me, looking for a bruise or something worse. He looked scared.

"No, I'm..." I said, sounding drunk, my eyes burning too much to see him properly. "We gotta go back, they need..."

Only then I could take a good look at him. The area under his eyes looked red and the rest of his face was horribly pale. He had an odd posture, his shoulders slumped, half bent forward. An arm covered his abdomen, so I stared at it.

"Christophe?" I asked quietly, trying not to sound as scared as I was.

He pulled back his arm, the sleeve of his coat covered in dark blood stains. I could see his stomach now. There was a huge stain on the right side of his abdomen, a stain that looked almost brown in the dark fabric of his shirt. The fabric was perforated. So was his flesh. There was a bullet inside.


	17. The Birth

May 26, 3660

Before I narrate the upcoming events of Kyle's birthday, there are some important things I can tell you about the another birthday that took place 16 years go. The President's birthday. I can tell you things that Kyle has never seen, therefore he can't tell you, and perhaps that was best for him. The first thing I want to share is what happened to Kenny McCormick after he lost his friends. Kenny used to be a young scrawny kid. People wouldn't look at him and think he had a bright future ahead. His legs looked like two sticks and he didn't have all the teeth in his mouth. Then, Kenny grew to become a different man. Not better or worse, just different. The important thing now is that Kenny wasn't particularly brave or altruistic, because he was the one who had grown up under the worst conditions of all of them and he learned from an early age to look out for himself first, since no one else would. However, he was part of a resistance group. Does that seem contradictory? It shouldn't.

Maybe Kenny joined La Resistance at that time much more for himself than for the cause.

When the shooting started, Kenny used those slender legs to run. Everybody else was running to look for shelter, but Kenny was running to look for something different. His people. He got to an alley that led to the upper avenue. He spotted Eric Cartman inside a van honking at him, shouting for him to come in. Kenny came through the window, awkwardly, and even before he was sprawled on the seat, Cartman stepped on the pedal and took off with the van as far as possible. Kenny screamed that they had to go back, they needed to find Kyle and Stan. It was all he could think about. Kyle and Stan. The only two people who mattered in the world to Kenny, at least the only two that had no blood connection to him. Anyway, his appeals were useless. Cartman kept on driving, telling him to look out the window for more people. It was only then that Kenny noticed Craig Tucker on the back of the van, his eyes red and swollen, his face wet, motionless. He would have looked dead if it weren't for his heavy breathing and the fact that he had no visible injury. He kept staring at nothing. Craig had seen Tweek being trampled. Kenny still didn't know about that.

"Cartman, for the love of your mother, please..." Kenny murmured, no longer sounding hysterical, writhing in a silent cry. He grabbed the door handle because the needed to hold something with his fingers. "Cartman, they're still there."

"You fucking listen to me, Kenny." It was the first time Cartman opened his mouth since Kenny had gotten into the van. He bit the nail of his thumb to try and keep his nerves under control. "I'll only say this once. Those little shits are tough, okay? I pity the sapper that runs into Broflovski there. And they're together, they'll be fine. You can't do shit for them if you have a bullet in your head, so just fucking stay quiet."

And with that, Kenny swallowed his tears and turned to look through the window glass. Chaos had taken the main avenue down there, the military sought people like rats, and Cartman expected a van tire to be shot at any second. Kenny expected Cartman to run someone over driving like that. And Craig just hoped that Clyde was safe.

But twenty seconds, Kenny opened the van door as it was still moving and jumped out, collapsing on the street, ignoring his skinned knees and hands to run back to the crowd. He went up the street faster than a wild feline, braking when he found a man in white pointing his rifle directly at Clyde, who was surrendering against the wall. Kenny raised his left arm and lustily shouted "Viva la Resistance". The man in white didn't think twice before hitting him with a furious sequence of shots - even though some consider guns a cold way to kill - which gave Clyde enough time to ran and briskly jump through the first window he found. Kenny fell dead on the concrete and Clyde survived the incident with a few minor scratches.

It was very good for Kenny to have believed, during that difficult time, that Kyle and Stan were together. But the truth is that Stan spent two hours hidden in a trash can, all by himself, reviving a very old habit of praying. Not to God himself, though he already had a lot of fascination with all kinds of religions at the time, but he prayed to fate or anything like that. Stan spent those two hours not knowing about what had happened to Tweek, not knowing where Kyle was. When he came out after the shots ceased in that area, he came walking down the sidewalk with shaky legs and clothes smeared with blood of strangers he had tried to help. He didn't have to walk far to find a blond boy dressed in a funny way, how they used to dress children in the Victorian era, with a bow-tie and a beret. The boy ran to him, believing that Stan was injured. He didn't look a day over seventeen, if Stan would have guess. His hand was pierced by a bullet, but he still tried to help Stan, who felt like a thousand years old man. The boy introduced himself as Pip. Stan tried to smile at him, but failed.

The girl they had met a few days before, Bebe Stevens, was also with them that day. You know, the truth is that the only person Bebe had in the world was her dying mother who wouldn't be around for long. This may or may not have been the reason why she was so willing to help the young people who had saved her life in any way possible. Gregory had offered her a basic job and put Wendy to make sure she wouldn't do anything stupid. He was forced to trust and rely on all the people who wanted to join the resistance. Bebe smiled at Wendy the day she met her, but Wendy didn't smile back. At least not then. During the chaos, they hid together behind a bar counter with the place owner and a few civilians. People in that bar just thought the two were prostitutes. They didn't know they were giving shelter to a rebel.

Or two, in that case.

Gregory spent that entire day out in the open, never hiding, taking down as much sappers as he could and helping people find escape routes, helping the injured, climbing on stands in the street to give them a sense of security and tell them to stay calm, therefore exposing himself. God only knows how he didn't get shot. He probably saved a good number of lives that day. That's what made people want to follow him wherever he went.

It's funny to tell all these events of the past when I can see them right now from where I am, so very clearly. Because time is simultaneous. And if we go back to that morning in 3660, when Kyle is completing thirty-three years, we'll find him taking off his shirt, standing in his room darkened by closed curtains blocking the sunlight and we'll realize that everything happens at the same time. Kyle slips the white cotton shirt over his head and gets rid of it, the Mole leans on the doorway and crosses his arms, watching him carefully, and as this happens, the Mole is also trying to bust a door open with his shoulder back in 3644, pressing a hand over his bullet wound that has given him the scar he now has on the abdomen, and there he's bleeding all over the floor, and Kyle is pushing him away so he can break the lock himself, driven by an animalistic rage that he doesn't have right now, sixteen years later, undressing in the intimacy of the room. And now, as an adult man, Kyle reveals the huge scar that is on the left side of his lower back, his deformed skin that has been this way for years. Kyle does not have this scar in 3644, while he's breaking in the storage room of a closed establishment so The Mole can have a shelter and a place to lie down.

Young Kyle is terrified that Christophe will die and has no idea of the horrors that they'll still live through. And he's going through such horrors right now, because time is simultaneous. Somewhere in time, in the story of Kyle Broflovski, he's getting this scar.

It's all interconnected.

But I still try really hard to make my storytelling clear to you. I'll try to stick to what is understood to be present in this story, because we have important details to cover.

Christophe DeLorne wears a black button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark jeans that are a little too long for his legs. He's barefoot. He creeps up behind Kyle so sneaky and silently that Kyle only noticed his presence when Christophe is about to touch him. That kind of thing always scares him. He hates being caught by surprise. Christophe's hand immediately covers the scar on Kyle's back to caress it, even though he knows how Kyle feels about it. Kyle steps away like Christophe's hand was made of hot iron, turning back to look at him, an annoyed expression on his face.

"Don't." He says firmly, laying a hand on the Mole's broad chest to keep him away.

Not that it works very well. Christophe stares blankly for a few seconds, then leans on to brush his lips against Kyle's, the tip of his nose sliding on the other man's cheek, taking his bigh hands to the bare waist. Kyle still holds the shirt in his hand. He dives his face in the curve between Christophe's shoulder and neck, practically purring like a kitten. The two still have the memory of sex very much alive in their bodies, impregnated with the smell and the sweat of each other. Christophe fondles the scarred skin with his thumb and kisses the other scar under Kyle's eye, and this time, he allows it.

"I don't understand why you'd be ashamed of it." The Mole whispers in his ear, referring to the skin of his back which never regenerated. "It's so fucking beautiful..."

"You're crazy."

"I mean it."

And to show just how much he means it, Christophe playfully pushes him face down in the newly made bed. He slowly slides both hands through Kyle's sides, feeling the flesh, the skin, the muscles underneath, watching the contrast of his darker skin against Kyle's, so pale. And the Mole kneels on the floor and leans over him, supporting his chest on Kyle's ass, laughing uncomfortable as he finds a comfortable position, turning his face over his shoulder. The Mole slides his nose and lips over the scar, holding Kyle's waist firmly in place, leaving Kyle's entire body tense, hard as stone. But Christophe kisses the skin with his mouth open, letting the saliva spread, licking up his backbone. Kyle shivers, closing his eyes. Christophe's hands run down to grab Kyle's ass cheeks, still covered by light fabric pants he had used to sleep.

"Wait." Kyle whispers under heavy breathing, voice contradicting his word. "C'mon. We should talk."

Christophe lets out a muffled groan, pulling the hem of his pants slightly down, tucking his face there like a dog sniffing for something.

"Mmm, 'bout what?"

If there's one thing that makes Kyle angry is when someone acts like they don't know something. Believe me, I know. He has given me shit about that before. He rolls on the side and finally straightens up, sitting on the mattress and turning his torso to look at Christophe.

"Are you really gonna do that?" Kyle asks him.

You know, I feel awful for the Mole. The incident happened the night before, only six hours ago, actually. Kyle followed him right after the whole thing happened, but Christophe still wasn't ready to say a word. Now he comes in here as if nothing happened because that's the only way he knows how to communicate when things get tough. He's trying to apologize, I can see that.

And Kyle sees it too. I knows this dog man well enough. But that doesn't relieve the tightness in his chest. His bruises are awfully purple now and they hurt like shit, but that's not the worst part. Kyle is always so anxious when he can't help the ones he loves. Believe me, I know it.

"You have ptsd, don't you?" Kyle asks him quietly, which makes the Mole get up from the floor and put a hand on his hip, rubbing his face with the other one like he suddenly has a headache, taking a few steps back. "Christophe, I could have told me."

The Mole turns his back to him for no more than two seconds, then turns around again, uneasy, scratching his beard and looking for the right thing to say. He doesn't find it. So he just stands there staring back with dilated pupils, a boy's eyes. Kyle stands up from the bed and walks up to him, gently touching his shoulder, caressing his arm.

"You know I never meant to hurt you." Christophe says at last, with a small, shy voice. "I'm really fucking sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for something that wasn't your fault. I just wish you had talked to me about… You know, how bad things were. We all went through it at some level, Christophe. You know that. Don't you remember how fucked up I was when I came back from Washington? I was... Completely broken. I couldn't even close my eyes for a second without thinking I was back in prison. Sometimes, even with my eyes open. And you helped me so much." He makes a pained pause, wanting to get closer to him, but doesn't move because the Mole doesn't turn to look at him. He's still staring at the floor.

"I could have killed you, Kyle." He whispers.

"That would never happen, I can take you down easy." Kyle tries to say it with a smile, nervously licking his lips. Christophe does not smile, but at least he looks at Kyle now. "I just really wish you'd let me help you too."

Christophe runs his tongue over his teeth, as he always does when he's thinking too hard. Kyle already knows this habit, he knows how the man works. Finally, the Mole sits on the chair in the corner of the room, next to a turned off lamp. His legs are wide open and he supports his elbows on the thighs, his head hanging a little forward. The scar under Kyle's eye deforms with a curious expression as he faces the other man. He's no longer frightened by Christophe's vulnerability, no sir. That fear has been gone for years.

"What happened to you in France, Christophe?" Kyle asks suddenly, cutting the silence of the room. He takes two steps forward. "What did they do to you?"

The Mole joins both hands in front of his face, entangling his fingers. and bends his spine a little, narrowing his eyes to the ground, no hurry to respond.

"They did what they had to do. And I did what I had to do. That's how it works."

Kyle couldn't argue that.

Then he returns to getting dressed because he's already late for work. That doesn't make much sense to me, because he can make his own schedules and he's not exactly subordinate to anyone, but he works with routine. The Mole stays quiet, his arms now resting on the chair's, his back relaxed, watching the scar on Kyle's back disappear under the thin fabric shirt. Kyle opens up the curtains and then sees him through the mirror that hangs next to the window, watching him for a few seconds, the sunlight falling beautifully on his face.

"Today's your birthday, isn't it?" Christophe suddenly asks.

Kyle is almost done closing the buttons of his shirt. He look back at him with a faint smile wanting to appear on his face, because he wasn't expecting him to know that. Birthdays are not a particularly important day for him. It will be just an ordinary day, at first. But this moment is delicious because the question comes from a person who despises birthdays and anniversaries in general.

"It is, indeed."

"So… Do you want to do something?"

Now Kyle is truly smiling and there is no shame in that. As there shouldn't be. He walks over to Christophe and holds his face with both hands, forcing him to look up so they'll face each other. The Mole hesitate for a moment like the stubborn asshole that he is, but his hands also end up by the sides of Kyle's thighs, touching him fondly, not so much sexual. Kyle leans to kiss the man's forehead.

"Please, be here when I get back." He tells him.

"Where would I go?" The Mole asks.

I understand that Kyle is afraid he'll go missing again after what happened. The Christophe of sixteen years ago, that one Kyle first met, the one who bleeds with a gun wound in 3644 right now, maybe that Christophe would have run away like an animal after giving Kyle a nice bruise on the neck as a birthday present. You can't say that he wasn't already quite traumatized at that time.

But Christophe tries to smile as if to assure him that he's not going anywhere, squinting a little his sunken eyes that hadn't been closed all night. Kyle is convinced, or tries to convince himself that this is enough, so he messes his hair and leaves a lingering kiss on his cheek.

"Alright then. Tonight we figure out how to celebrate."

Gregory has a beautiful voice and is always making use of it. He walks down the narrow hallway on the Chamber's top floor, which is eerie and dim if you ask me, whistling a song from The Sound of Music, singing some parts that his old man's memory can recall. He opens the door to Kyle's office in this dramatic way, as if starting a musical number in a movie. Instead, he gives Kyle a giant smile, exposing his white and inhumanly straight, looking at Kyle from the doorway. Kyle should already be used to Gregory's triumphant way to enter any room, but he's not, that's explicit in the confused and yet amused expression he offers in return. Kyle raises an eyebrow, holding the pen he was writing with a few seconds ago. Deep down, he wants to smile but can't. He is too busy trying to make Gregory feel a little ashamed for being eccentric, just as an experiment he knows he'll fail. Gregory feels no shame.

Gregory invades the room still wrapped by singing, stumbling in the lyrics he no longer remembers. As still dancing, he takes two steps forward and looks serious all of the sudden.

"I'll propose something and you'll say yes." He finally said, stepping on the dusty carpet of the office when approaching Kyle's desk. "Can we do that?"

"Are you finally asking me to marry you?"

"No… Wait, that depends. What would you say if I did?"

Kyle laughs. "What do you want, Gregory?" He then asks, a smile already transpiring in his face.

Gregory walks the rest of the distance like a more normal human being, sliding his hands over the smooth surface of the desk full of papers and books, leaning on to get closer to Kyle's face as he stares back curiously. It is a ritual that these two practice annually.

There is a calendar on the desk. Gregory holds it in his hand to carefully study it, pointing at the number 26 printed in red. He crooks his head aside and shows it to Kyle as if he didn't already know what day it is.

"Come have dinner at my house."

"Gregory..."

"Don't Gregory me. It'll be no big deal, I promise. I'll cook your favorite, have very few people over. You won't have to socialize with anybody you don't want to." He puts the calendar down and begins to put his power of persuasion in practice. "I bought you cake, you can't say no to me. Will you reject my cake, Kyle? Would you really?"

Kyle reclines in his chair, takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, mimicking a very common gesture of Stan without realizing it.

"God, you're annoying." He says with all the love in the world, which makes Gregory smile.

He doesn't take long before returning to face Gregory with a blank expression, his eyes shining, looking so tired. He is trying to answer with silence, but he knows Gregory too well. He's aware that, as long as the man doesn't hear the word "yes", every other answer is disregarded. So Kyle takes a deep breath and rubs his jaw, looking at the peeling paint on the wall. Jesus, they are so funny together.

Gregory spends a little while staring at the blue scarf around Kyle's neck.

"Isn't it a little warm to wear that?"

"Are you done, Gregory?"

"Kyle, honey, I'm willing to cook for you. What more do you want from me?"

Kyle laughs, shaking his head as if he has heard something unbelievable.

"I want nothing from you, Gregory. Don't you have calls to make?"

"Tell me something, Kyle. How many times over the last thirty-three years have you thought you were going to die? We are more attached to death anniversaries than birthdays. We should celebrate more."

"Yeah, I guess that's true. But at this point, I think I'll rather celebrate at home."

Gregory leaves a hand resting on the table and takes the other one to his hip. He wears white gloves, a navy blue jacket and red pants on a patriotic theme that was probably accidental. Kyle wonders if maybe he's having one of those days when he really misses his homeland, the land he will never return to. There is a curious glint in his blue eyes. He studies Kyle's expression for a second, watching how he plays with the pen now.

"Alone?"

Kyle smiles and looks away, shaking his head disapprovingly. Gregory has that unnatural power of making him smile whenever he doesn't wants to.

"Because, you see..." Gregory goes on without waiting for an answer (it was a rhetorical question, of course). He straightens up and adjusts his gloves as he speaks. "There's a problem with that. If you expect the Mole as a company, I'm afraid to tell you he has plans tonight. At my house. I'm celebrating your birthday with or without you, so you can either come along with him or spend the night drinking wine alone."

"You're horrible."

Gregory opens the kindest smile, closing his eyes a little.

"At eight, then?"

Kyle sighs in less dramatic way that he can, which is still quite dramatic.

"Do I have to bring something?"

"Just your little body is enough."

With a satisfied clap muffled by the gloves, Gregory turns his heels and walks toward the door that he was left open because he knew it would be a quick visit (he does, indeed, has calls to make). He relies too much on his own power of persuasion and one day he'll probably get screwed over it. But for now, Gregory cheerfully whistles with the small victory.

Something, however, still bothers him. At the door, Gregory holds the silver knob and turns the look at Kyle over his shoulder, a very subtle expression of pain taking over his face. He disguises very well before opening his mouth again, but it never works with Kyle. As much as he acts like a robot, he can never hide his feelings from him.

"Hey, can I invite Stan?"

Kyle takes a few seconds before looking up from the paper. He hadn't returned to write yet, but holds the pen as if he had.

"What?"

"Can I invite him for dinner?"

If I were still able to feel pain, surely my chest would be awfully tight right now, looking at the sad smile that Kyle offers him. Gregory's chest hurts because of this smile.

"Of course you can. He won't go, though."

Gregory shrugs, trying to look hopeful.

"Yeah, but who knows?" And leaves the room, winking at Kyle before closing the door behind him.

When he leaves, Kyle finally allows himself to laugh a little. It's a bittersweet laugh.


	18. The Death

November 11, 3644

When I was a boy, there was this one time when I saw my father cut his hand with a rusty nail into a plank of wood he was sawing. Fuck, there was so much blood. So much blood. Everything became red, the plank of wood and his entire arm, his clothes, the cloth he used to try and stop the bleeding. He became so pale, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible when he told me: "Kyle, go get mommy." I had never seen so much blood in my life, and more than that, I had never seen my father bleed before. You build in your head this image of a strong, untouchable man who can do anything, then you discover that he's made of flesh and blood, just like everyone else. He bleeds the same as everyone else. That's when you begin to discover that there are no supermen, when your father starts to become like all the other fallible humans in the world. My mother, on the contrary, remains a woman of steel to this day. She doesn't bleed, she doesn't cry, she doesn't feel.

Christophe had made me believe in invincible men again. He liked to make it seem like there was no way to take him down, but I was wrong to believe in such bullshit. I was so wrong. His blood smearing up his shoes was proof of that. After seeing the wound, I realized that his hot blood also stained the back of my shirt from the moment he held me from behind to keep me from running into the crowd to get Tweek out of there. I still resented him a bit for it, but there was no time to think about that. I had other priorities now. I burst that damned door open. There had been a wooden board locking the door from the inside, and Christophe had tried to force it open with his shoulder, but he didn't have enough strength. Of course he didn't. Standing up seemed hard enough for him at that moment, I pushed him aside and threw all my weight against that fucking wooden door. There were three or four tries before the board was broken and the door opened. You never know how strong you actually are until someone else's life depends on you.

He staggered a bit, holding on to things as he walked in. Inside, there were several shelves with canned food, sacks of flour, beans and other grains. It was a small room, the storage room of a restaurant, apparently. I took a few seconds to look around and recognize the environment, then hurried to push a big box in front of the closed door to block it somehow. It wouldn't prevent the men in white to find us, but at least it would hold them for a while until we could get away, if it came down to it. Although I didn't think Christophe could really run, but so many thoughts were rushing through my mind and I couldn't think straight. There was only a small window illuminating the place and no one would be able to through it. The box left a dust trail on the ground as I dragged it. I still carried two more huge bags of flour to put on top, adding weight. Maybe there was no point to that, but I felt like I'd die if I stopped moving. Or worse, burst into tears.

In the meantime, the Mole walked limping between the shelves, looking for something useful. He suddenly grunted, which made me turn my face toward him. It was a loud, frustrated sound.

"Shit." He said, punching the shelf, rattling the glass jars. A bottle of olive oil fell to the ground, but it didn't break. "Fucking shit!" He yelled again.

And with that, as if nothing else mattered, he fell right there. It was more like sitting down, actually, letting go of his body weight like he didn't want to carry it anymore, but from the sound of his body meeting the ground, it seemed accidental. He leaned his head back on the shelf, it was wobbly and did not seem to give much support. That's just what we needed, for that fucking shelf to topple. Christophe rubbed his face with one hand. I was completely covered in sweat, my skin darker because of a layer of dirt, who knows what else. I dropped the last bag of flour and approached him.

"Let me see that."

"Why?" He asked in a weak husky voice. "What do you know about gunshot wounds?"

I first answered with a cranky "tsk", kneeling before him. "Well, I'm all you got."

"How lucky am I?"

I held the hem of his shirt with the tips of my fingers and rolled the fabric up as delicately as possible. I saw exactly what I didn't want to. The bullet never goes in a perfect round hole, if that's the idea most people have of it. It pierces the flesh and tears it apart in a way that makes you realize how fragile our bodies actually are, we're just meat bags of bone and blood. A lot of blood. The blood seemed endless. I could feel his expression relax a little, maybe because he saw my eyes shining in fear as I looked at it.

"We have to stop this bleeding."

He didn't protest and I was relieved. Little by little, he lay back, looking for a suitable position as if he knew what he was doing. And he probably did. He was strangely quiet for someone who had just been shot. There were low moans of pain, he grimaced and squinted and his breath was weird, but that was about it. It was like the reaction most people have when they stub their toe. Anyway, I was looking around for cloths of any kind; it was very unlikely that I could find a fucking gauze roll around there. Desperation always makes you horrible at looking for stuff, just when you need them the most. Christophe laid his hand on his own chest and watched me from the ground, his lips parted, breathing fast as a slaughtered animal.

"Kyle..." He muttered with such a weak voice that only made me even more tense. I almost asked him to shut up. "There should be a..." He grunted, letting the air out. "A black backpack behind that counter."

"There?"

"Yeah. There must be something useful inside."

I silently thanked God for being able to at least find something. The backpack wasn't hard to find. I brought it a little closer to him so I could keep Christophe in sight and knelt on the floor to start inspecting it. The first thing I found were two guns and a lot of ammunition. Of course. There was also a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some pills that I could not identify, a piece of bread wrapped in plastic and, deep inside the bag, a clean shirt. Good. That would do the trick. It would have to.

"Okay… Okay, okay." I nervously mumbled to myself.

I had never done anything like that in my life before. You never know for sure what you're capable of until another human being needs you to be strong and not question anything, just act. Even lying on the floor like he was, bleeding and panting, Christophe was calmer than me. He made me feel like I could do that, like I had it in me.

I practically crawled to get back to him with that shirt in my hands like it was some precious object. I pressed it over the wound, as gently as possible, but firmly. Christophe had his head thrown back and was almost hyperventilating at this point, shivering, so sweaty that I wanted to rip off his shirt with my own hands because he seemed to be suffocating. When I first touched him, he screamed. It was more like a loud grunt, maybe. I put a hand on his forehead, so hot it seethed. He grabbed my arm with his hand and squeezed it so hard that my blood no longer ran through my veins, but that didn't stop me. I didn't relieve the pressure.

"I'm sorry..." I whispered to him, but it didn't look like he could hear me. I took a deep breath, trying to get my hands to stop shaking. I felt like I was the one causing his pain. "I know it hurts, I'm sorry."

But gradually, he opened his eyes again and seemed to have calmed down. The sounds that came from outside were thunderous, filling the room, getting stronger by the minute.

"How could you carry me like this?" I asked, more in an attempt to keep him awake than anything else. I didn't know whether it was best if he kept talking or not, but it felt like he would never open his eyes again if I let him close them. I also wanted to distract him from the noises, from the pain, from everything.

"Well..." He replied with a sick smile that could just easily be an expression of pain. "I was carrying you at first… But then I was just kind of leaning on you."

Christophe still sounded completely sane when he talked, despite the long pauses he made. I offered him a sad smile as he alternated his gaze between my face and my hands trying to stanch his blood. Fuck, how could one human being have so much blood inside? He squinted in pain, but didn't complain, not even for a minute. He knew it had to be done. I was hoping he'd tell me if I was doing it wrong.

"You'll be okay, Mole." I said, like an idiot. "We just have to wait for them to leave the street. Don't waste your energy, you'll have to walk a bit."

Then he truly smiled. But it wasn't a happy smile. It was bitter, incredulous. He turned his face to the other side. And I know now, looking back at it, that he didn't want to tell me what he already knew: I'd never be able to get him out of there by myself.

He was silent for a long time. I don't know how long exactly, I had no watch with me and no good notion of time. Incidentally, if I may say, the memories of that day always come through stained. I was too focused on getting him to stop bleeding at first, it took a lot from me. The shirt was already so drenched in blood that I considered taking my own off, but that wasn't necessary. I was already covered in blood too, his blood; the smell was strong, of gunpowder and guts. When things calmed down, I asked him if he had the strength to keep applying pressure while we changed positions. I couldn't find anything to put under his head, so I sat with my back against the shelf and lay his head on my lap. He had the dead weigh of a corpse. I pushed that thought away as soon as it came to my mind.

The worst part was the external sounds. The sounds of gunfire, the screams, the orders shouted through a megaphone, knowing that Stan still out there somewhere, in the middle of it all. And Kenny. And Gregory. And God, my mother. I thought a lot about my mother as we waited in silence.

We had done that. All the blood spilled that day would have been because of what we did.

I knew it wasn't the best way to think, but my head throbbed so much that it was hard to find any other way to look at the situation. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks and I could not take my hands off Christophe's injury to dry them.

But after a while, I felt the impulse to take a hand to his sweaty forehead, which made those brownish green orbs roll to face me. His eyelids looked heavy. He raised a trembling hand to run his thumb over my face, wiping my cheek. The corners of my lips grew into a shy smile.

"Are you afraid?" He asked me with that husky drawl. He didn't tell me it was all right, he didn't make any promises. Still, there was so much comfort in his touch, in his words, in that tender expression on his face. He looked so different from the man I've met before. So I just closed my eyes, shedding my tears as I nodded. Because I was fucking terrified. "Me too." Christophe whispered after a long moment in silence. His eyes were also filled with salty water that flowed when he closed his eyelids, slightly shaking his head, although it didn't look like he was crying. It felt more like an organic reaction to the shock in his body. Sniffling, he reached down the side of my neck and caressed me unhurried before lowering his weak arm. "Fuck. That's not how I wanted to go."

"Shut up. You're not going anywhere."

He did not rebut this.

I raised my hand holding the bloody shirt tightly between my fingers, his dark blood running down my hand and arm as I unwittingly squeezed the fabric. I took a good look at the perforation. Damn, it looked fucking awful. But I tried to tell myself that gunshot wounds are never beautiful.

"I think… I think it worked. It's not bleeding anymore. Maybe I can get something to clean around it. That would help, right?"

But when I tried to get up to look for something, thinking about that bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the bag, he suddenly grabbed my arm. His grip felt stronger now.

"No, just… Just stay here."

Fearfully, I obeyed.

I didn't want him to wear himself out, but at the same time, sitting there in silence - my ears filled with the streets massacre - was driving me insane. I didn't know for how long I could take that, but it felt like almost an hour had passed; and as the minutes went by, Christophe grew paler and his breathing was getting increasingly weirder. He was really shivering now. His skin was so cold, despite all the sweat. And he made these low little noises… Not moans, not grunts, not anything I'd ever heard a human make.

He was dying. I could feel it. I knew what his 'stay here' meant.

The outside noise was what truly made me think I'd lose my fucking mind. It felt like it would never ever end. Each desperate cry made me think if I knew that voice, but it seems like every person screams the same. I couldn't do anything. Not for the people outside, not for the man bleeding in my arms. I couldn't help them, I couldn't help myself. All I could do was wait. Sit there, hold him and wait. Show him I was there. Show him he wasn't alone. Listen to people being shot like animals outside, people who could have been my childhood friends or my mailman or my teacher. I wasn't crying anymore. I felt numb by the sounds.

Despite all the expectations, it came the moment when all noises ceased.

I had always considered myself a sane person in moments of insanity. It was one of the reasons why I joined the resistance to begin with, because I thought I could take anything that life threw my way, I always thought... I really thought I could do this. I thought I would survive it. But sitting there in the dusty storage room, my hands smeared blood making all that pressure to prevent Christophe's life from escaping more and more, I realized I couldn't do it. He was paler by the second; time ran like sand through my fingers, but at the same time it stretched, as if I had spent my whole life in that place, with Christophe bleeding out in my arms.

I couldn't lose him. I couldn't. I wouldn't survive it.

"I need... I need to get you out of here." I spoke. Hearing the desperation in your own voice is something terrible. I don't wish that on anyone. My voice came out so weak, like I had just woken up from a nightmare. Christophe didn't react immediately. Laying there, with his eyes closed his skin whiter than I'd ever seen it, he looked dead. "Christophe. I... I think the shooting stopped. Can you hear me?"

There was still some strength in his hand; he grabbed my wrist in response, so suddenly it scared me. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and then falling slowly.

"Kyle."

I hated the way he said my name.

"You're not bleeding anymore. I… I don't think you are. If you're still able to walk..." I began to move under him in an attempt to get up. "Gregory said there would be a doctor, right? Didn't he?! I can go get help."

"No." He snapped as he ran his hand down my arm, digging his short nails into my skin, the full weight of his body still rested on my thighs. "Please, don't... Don't go anywhere. Just... just stay here."

I had never heard the word "please" come out of his mouth before.

"I can't, Christophe. I can't do nothing." My voice had been so trembling, but only now it began to fail. Tears started to flow from my eyes and nose, because everything seemed to overflow; I didn't want to cry in front of him, not then, not like that. Not when he needed me. He needed me to be stronger than I really was. I slipped my hand from his wounded abdomen up to his chest, spreading dark blood, smearing blood over some parts of his clothes that had still been clean. "If I don't do anything..."

"I know. Kyle... You have to listen to me." He let go of my arm and took his weak hand to my cheek. That hand was covered in his blood too; everything was. It felt like he was gathering the very little bit of strength he had left to tell me what he was telling me, and I felt horribly guilty for it. "I know you're not very good at listening but you have to, okay?"

I nodded eagerly, sniffling and holding my breath so I wouldn't cry as I was diving in those eyes that weren't brown nor green. They didn't look like the eyes of a person who was about to die, they were still bright as ever, so powerful, like they could take anything.

With weak and hoarse voice, he finally whispered. "I'm not getting out of here alive."

"Christophe..."

"Fuck, would you shut up for a minute?" He said with a patient smile on his face, trying to mask his unbearable pain. I couldn't smile back, as much as I wanted to try and comfort him. His face was deformed in a grimace that exuded the pain of being torn apart. His complexion was frightening, as if he had more blood in his body. "They're still out there. The sappers. They're waiting for the... For the rats to come out of the burrow. You have to be patient, don't go while there's still sunlight. And when you do, go through the sewer. Go down the first manhole you can find, there's one at the beginning of the street. They never enter the sewer. Your sense of direction sucks, I know, but it's safer this way."

I couldn't hold back the low, wet laugh, but with that moment of sensitivity, I couldn't hold back the urge to cry again. He pressed his weak rough hand against my cheek, rubbing his thumb near my mouth. His voice was failing, his breathing ragged. His eyes seemed to want to rest. They wanted to close.

"You'll live."- He told me. "Promise me you'll live. It'll be all right, just go north. You know where north is, don't you?"

I almost chuckled again, nodding several times, though I wasn't even thinking about his question. I would have said yes to anything just to reassure him. Christophe closed his eyes, satisfied. His hand left my face. The loss of the his skin's touch on mine made my heart sink.

"Find Gregory. He'll know where to find my body."

"No. No, you can't… You can't ask this of me. I'm not leaving you here. You know that, right?"

"Kyle... Please."

Again with that "please" story. God, he sounded exhausted. I didn't want to be arguing with him, making him waste more energy; the rational part of my brain understood that. But there was nothing rational about what he was asking me to do.

He couldn't ask me to live with that. I'd rather the sappers to find us and fusillade us both at once.

I know how this sounds selfish, but the inside of my chest was boiling in anger towards him. For just giving up, for not being a coward who runs from the fight, for dying on me. For disappearing from this word before we lived whatever we had to live.

I felt even angrier at myself for not kissing him the afternoon before, in the hangar, for running away when he told me the truth; that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. That it wasn't all in my head, that it wasn't only ideological admiration. I had fallen in love with that man. Everything looked so crystal clear inside that storage room, feeling like I was saying goodbye. That was love. Consuming, heart-wrecking, irresponsible, burning love. And I hated myself for feeling it, almost as much as I hated myself for not having done anything about it when I still had the chance.

"You know, I… I've always known that I'd die like this. That this motherfucking fight would kill me." Christophe muttered, his eyes still closed. "But I always thought I would die alone." Then he paused. It was long enough for me to want to check if he was still breathing, even if his chest continued to go up and down. Suddenly, his eyes opened, more alive than ever. "I'm really fucking glad you're here."

There was nothing I could say to that. Nothing I could argue, nothing I could ask for. He was being so honest with me. Little by little, my heartbeat slowed down. I felt washed over by a bitter and quiet feeling. Was this acceptance? I began to understand things. Christophe would die that day. It would be too violent to drag him away by force. I didn't even have the physical strength to do such a thing. More than that, I had no emotional structure to disrespect all the visceral weakness he was showing me. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to live. The man in my arms was no longer the Mole, he was no longer the iron man who had built a wall around himself, who was invincible. The man in my arms was Christophe DeLorne, a wounded and traumatized man, a very strong man who had been treated with so much cruelty by the world. I wondered how many people had known the real Christophe, beyond the armor he wore. Despite all, I felt lucky.

And for over an hour we were silent, maybe more than that. His exasperated breath waned and he became increasingly groggy. And I was just sitting there, watching the life leave his body, with my fingers firmly entwined in his. Feeling his heat. Letting him know I wasn't going anywhere. That I'd stay with him the entire time. Come what may.

"I should... I should have told Stan the truth." The words left my mouth as if they had a life of their own. I didn't think about what I was saying. You say many things when you think that someone you love will die. "I should have ended things with him and… If I had just been honest... We had so much to live, Christophe." With my free hand, I stroked his hair back. My thumb was wandering around his forehead covered in sweat. He was shaking. He didn't even seem to hear me, but it didn't matter. I needed to get that out of my chest while there was time. "It's not fair. None of this is fair. You can't do this, you can't change me like this and... And disappear."

Then he smiled. It was a smile I'd never seen before in his face, so gentle, so happy. There was no pain in his face when he gave me that smile. Maybe he was already losing his senses, too numbed to feel.

That moment of relief lasted a very short time. Soon, he began to cough up blood, squeezing my hand tightly as he did so, like he was holding on to his own life. With the cough, he amended an insane laugh, with no vitality, and shouted to the ceiling. "For fuck's sake, just take me, you son of a bitch! I'm ready, what the fuck are you waiting for?!"

It scared me. The blood coming out of his mouth, the look in his eyes, his words. It took me a while to understand that he was talking to God. I guess very few people still spoke to Him. Christophe breathing through his mouth was bordering on an anxiety attack. Then he looked back at me. His eyes filled with water and fear. His pupils were dilated and the iris had an aggressive glare that spoke loud as his voice could no longer speak.

"I did a lot of bad things in my life, Kyle."

"Shh. Stop it. You're a good man." I whispered with the same voice that my mother used to tuck Ike in when he was a child. If she did the same with me, I couldn't remember it.

"I've done some… Really fucking horrible… Shit." It was the last thing he said with a resigned smile before losing conscious.

My heart stopped for a second. His hand holding mine still had some strength. I didn't let go of it. I grabbed his wrist with my other hand, trembling, but managed to find a weak pulse. He was still alive.

"Christophe..." I muttered quietly to myself, so fucking relieved.

Still, I took my hand to feel the warm air coming out of his nostrils. God didn't seem to want him just yet, and I was grateful for it. I leaned my head against the shelf, relaxing my muscles, my chin facing up. I closed my eyes and let my body succumb to exhaustion.

I have no idea how much time passed after that. I don't know if I actually fell asleep or not. I probably didn't, to obsessed with keeping my hand on Christophe's chest to feel his lungs filling with air and his heart beating. But my eyes were closed. They were only opened when the silence was broken by a loud bang on the door. The impact on the other side was so strong that dust rose from the ground. I didn't have time to think about how to hide Christophe before the door was forced open. And that was it. I couldn't fulfill what I had promised him. The sappers would come in kicking the door, the barrel of the gun all ready to go in my mouth. And all that would be left were my brains around the walls, brain pieces and guts that no one would ever clean. That's the way it always went. There was no reason to be different with me.

But was.

I had never been taught to turn to God in times of despair. It wasn't so much that mankind didn't believe in His existence anymore, but if one day God had watched over our lives, he had abandoned us long ago. This was the first time in my life when God actually manifested Himself. And it wouldn't be the last.

The person who entered the storage room, instead of a man in white with his immaculate white boots and clothes filthy with young kid's blood, was Gregory. His boots were all dirty, making the boards creak under his weight. He looked completely disheveled, his clothes torn and bloody, but he didn't seem to have any big injury. The red of his coat wouldn't let the dark bloodstains show so evident as well, but the white shirt underneath told a different story about the confrontation.

He had a shotgun resting on his shoulder. There was live blood spattered all over his neck and cheek.

"Kyle." He said in a worried tone, but his brain still hadn't processed who I had in my arms. Because Gregory wasn't used to seeing Christophe fallen. He looked around, searching for a strong, healthy and standing Mole. He stopped breathing when he realized that the Mole was rag of a person lying on my lap. "Oh God, no. No no no no."

He ran toward us, noisily dropping the shotgun on the floor like it was a toy, then he knelt, pulling Christophe carefully with his elegant hands, holding his unconscious face. He slapped him on the cheek twice, lightly, but there was no control in his voice. "Mole. Mole, you bastard, talk to me."

It was such a relief when Gregory pulled him from my arms. I didn't want to admit it, but it was. I could barely feel my legs. Gregory had always represented such a strength that I envied, a composure that I wished I had, a passion for change that I admired. Having him there, so close to me, sharing a pain that until then had been all mine, it was like I could breathe again. I covered my face with both hands and started to cry like a child. I didn't know why. It wasn't just relief or dread. Now, I could fall.

"Is he dead?!" Gregory asked, trying to feel the pulse in his neck. "Kyle. Talk to me."

"No... No, I don't think so." I answered with a breathless tight voice.

"Hey." He grabbed my hands to expose my red, swollen, wet face. He took a good look at me and asked firmly. "Are you hurt?"

I just shook my head.

"Good. Help me carry him."


	19. The Rebirth

November 11, 3644

The following events were a huge blur in my memory for a long time. My conscience would turn on and off, perhaps as a defense mechanism; perhaps because of the exhaustion. I do remember that Gregory and I dragged the Mole off to a van. God, he was so heavy, it was like carrying a stone statue. But Gregory seemed to be carrying most of the weight. He looked so strong that night. The street was empty. Cartman was sitting behind the wheel. I was relieved that he was okay. He turned to look at us, not even trying to disguise the terror on his face. But he soon swallowed it because Cartman was that kind of person who allows himself to feel something for five seconds and then does what has to be done. It's good to have someone like that by your side in a revolution.

As soon as I got in the car, he asked me. "Was Kenny with you?"

It reminded me of all the others who, up until then, I hadn't had the time to remember of. Was Kenny missing? No. I could not cope with more losses that day. Not like that, not after watching Tweek being trampled by that fucking desperate crowd of morons.

There was only one person stuck in my mind all the time. I didn't know if I was ready to know what had happened to him.

"They were alone." Gregory answered for me. He sat behind me, not wanting to take his hands off Christophe even for a second. Christophe's limp head was still lying on my lap while Gregory took off his (unrecognizable, blood-soaked) shirt to look at his wound, desperate to see how bad it was. "Come on, Cartman, drive."

"What about Stan?" I asked, my hands trembling constantly.

"He's fine. He'll be happy to see you." Gregory told me with a hint of a grin to calm me down. It was amazing. He was amazing. I could see how terrified he was, having his very own best friend in that situation right before his eyes, but still, Gregory managed to talk in his smooth voice and making me believe everything would be alright, even if he wasn't so sure himself.

"Is he dead?" Cartman asked without moving, staring at Christophe's reflexion through the rearview mirror with a frown on his face.

"No, he's not dead!" Gregory shouted. "Now drive before I shoot you!"

Now he had the rifle hanging on the back, held by a leather strap across his body. I didn't think he was just saying it, giving the fire in his eyes, I had no doubt he might actually shoot anyone who didn't do what he said at that time. Anyone who got in his way. Cartman must have thought the same thing. Still, being the fucking stubborn asshole he was, he still argued. "Kenny hasn't returned. He may still be bleeding in a hole somewhere."

It felt like my heart was bleeding. The argument between them sounded to my ears exactly like the shots and screams from a few hours before. There was a buzz in my head.

"He may also be healthy as a horse and finding a way to get to the cabin right now. He may be halfway through, he may already have arrived there. I don't fucking know. It's far away, Cartman, not everyone will get there at the same time. I don't know what happened to Kenny, but I do know what happened to the Mole. And if he dies because you didn't do your job, I swear, I don't know what I'm capable of doing to you."

"Are you hurt, Broflovski?" Cartman asked as he started the car. That actually surprised me; I had never seen Cartman back down from a fight.

"No... I'm fine." It was the last thing I whispered before closing my eyes. And for God knows how long, we drove in silence. There was too much adrenaline in my body to sleep, but had lapses of consciousness.

I was not well.

When I reconnected to the space around me again, we were away from the city. We had a previous plan to meet in a secluded house in the woods after the crash to reorganize ourselves and take care of the injuries, if necessary. Gregory hadn't told us who that house belonged to or how had he found a doctor willing to help illegal rebels, but all of us just blindly trusted him. No matter what kind of shit went down, having Gregory near you always made you feel like he would handle things, like he knew what he was doing.

"How did you know where to find us?" I suddenly asked. Sometimes I had the impression that Gregory knew everything.

He was distracted studying the Mole's face. But he turned his blue eyes to me and tried to offer a comfort expression.

"That's where he used to sleep. Well, he has some other holes to hide at, so I had to look a bit before finding you guys. I know he doesn't just hide randomly, he knows better than that. Wasn't there a backpack full of gear in it?"

It was strange how the memory brought a smile to my lips, since it wasn't a good one, not at all. It was the way Gregory said it.

"There was..." I stroked Christophe hair back. His face looked so peaceful now. "He's really prepared."

"He is." Gregory agreed with melancholy.

The landscape was becoming increasingly rural. We passed by fields of corn and wheat, cattle, small and large farms, green and beige mixing together. The trees weren't bearing fruits at the time of the year, preparing for the harsh winter. The cold was intense, now I could feel it. I was also regaining the feeling in my fingers; a feeling that I hadn't even known I'd lost with the shock. Gregory covered Christophe with his red coat.

Finally, we reached the destination. It was a short drive, twenty minutes to half an hour between the city and the house in the countryside, less hidden than I expected. The trees around the house were already naked, with one or two stubborn little leaves still waiting to fall. It was a large wooden house that had never been painted, though it seemed to be quite old. It had two floors and an attic with a small round window. The porch was large.

Just the sound of the car parking got heads appearing in the windows, daring and worried faces. The door also flew open. Gregory and Cartman hurriedly carried Christophe inside, each holding one end of his body. He was still completely passed out. It looked like they were carrying a corpse.

Without realizing it, I was standing in the middle of the dry garden, arms fallen on the sides of my body, unable to get my legs to work.

"Kyle!" I heard Stan's voice. He pushed Clyde away from the doorway and ran down the old stairs of the porch. My heart almost came out of my mouth for the eleventh time that day, but it felt different now. He could run, that had to be a good sign. I didn't have the time to check him for injuries before feeling his warm body bumping against mine, taking me in his arms. He was wearing a different outfit from before, a gray sweatshirt and black pants; there were no blood stains, rips or any signs of confrontation. He looked like he had already bathed. I felt the smell of his skin invading my body like the most delicious nurturance. He was okay.

Stan had a warm, strong, vital hug. He smelled of life, not blood. He almost took my feet a bit from ground and pressed my ribs unintentionally; that's what made me cry. He stroked my back and took me, allowing me to disappear into his arms. I hid my face in his shoulder and wet the soft fabric with tears, snot and a lot of blood.

"Are you alright?" He asked me so kindly after a while, pulling away just enough to look at me. He held me firmly in his arms and looked for some injury, terrified with all that blood covering me from head to toe. But the blood did not belong to me.

"I... It's just scratches. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Sometimes you can't feel it because of the shock."

"I'm sure." I said weakly. It was so hard looking at him, but at the same time, it was all I wanted to do. "Stan..."

"I lost you." His warm hand cupped my cheek, covering my skin stained by Christophe's blood, drying my tears. "One second you were there, and then..."

"Stan." I interrupted him more aggressively than I should have, trying to spit out the words drowning in my throat. "Tweek…"

But he spared me from having to say such atrocity aloud. He nodded and leaned his forehead against mine, slipping his hand down the side of my neck. He spoke very softly. "I know, baby. I know…"

Then he made a face… The only face I didn't want him to make, the face of someone who needed to tell me something important. A face that I should get used to, because this kind of expression would be part of my daily life from then on. I still couldn't fully understand that. I couldn't weigh anything accurately at that moment, it would be a victory if I could just walk to the house by myself, put my feet at the porch steps and enter that place. My legs felt like jelly.

"Who?" I asked, slowly pulling away from him. I could hear the fear in my own voice. But there was resignation too.

Stan gulped and looked away from me, back to the house, holding my left arm.

"Butters. He... He's still alive, but we can't tell for how long."

I squinted. There were no tears left, that's how it felt. Still, the grimace of pain took over my entire face, and all I could do for a while was to shake my head no.

"Fuck." I said. "Is there…? Is there a chance?"

Stan licked his lips, staring at me with loving eyes. "Token doesn't think he'll make it until tomorrow."

The mention of that name made me freeze. The confusion must have been evident because Stan stammered, unsure how to continue. Something must have happened inside that house in the afternoon, something I couldn't understand because I hadn't been there. I frowned and stepped back, staggering.

They say that the first stage of grief is denial, then maybe my subsequent actions have purely to do with it. But anyway, that's what happened. Whether I'm proud of it or not. And I'm not. I really am not.

"Token? What's he doing here?!"

Token Black was our childhood friend. More like Craig and Clyde's friends than exactly ours, but still. Wealth, social status, maintenance of power, politics, these things don't matter to kids. There was a natural separation between Token and the others when each of us got forced to fulfill the social role of utility that had been designated to us. Token was the son of wealthy people, both his father and his mother were defense attorneys for the most rotten political figures of Colorado. He also studied with us.

"He's the doctor." Stan told me warily, raising his hands as if asking me to stay calm.

"Doctor?! What the fuck are you talking about, he's a vet!" I screamed.

Suddenly, as if by miracle, my legs gained strength to carry me up inside that house. I got to run over the dry leaves scattered around that garden as well as some thin branches that broke under my weight. It was not a well-tended garden, you can imagine. It was already getting dark and it looked like rain was about to fall from the skies.

The living room was larger than I expected. Several faces turned to me, eyes wide and lips parted, as if my image was a shock. I didn't know exactly what I looked like, but it shouldn't be too neat and healthy. It I looked as shitty as I felt, their shock was justified. Anyway, it was so good to see some familiar faces. There was not much furniture, that obviously wasn't a room meant for people to be in; it had been a long time since someone had lived there, certainly. The hideous flowered curtains were closed, there was a green couch where Bebe and Wendy were sitting very close to each other, and Cartman was at the opposite end, taking up the space of two people. I couldn't keep my eyes from seeking Kenny, but he was nowhere to be found. There were also some crates people were using to sit on; Clyde, for instance, covered his face with both hands and cried. Copiously. Craig, as usual, was right beside him. But there was something different about him. He looked haggard, with dark circles, staring at the ground as if the world was only a nuisance buzz that he wanted to get rid of. He remained beside Clyde though. Always had, always would.

Standing further away from the group was Scott Malkinson. He was a boy I didn't know very well, but he was thin and frail and freckled. That much I knew. He had a weak hair and eyes filled with terror. At least he was alive. Heidi and Jason comforted each other somewhere and there were voices coming from what appeared to be the kitchen. There was a blond boy dress in the most ridiculous way, I had no idea who he was, but he looked very lonely. He wasn't the only person I did not know. An extremely tall man, the size of a wardrobe, with spiky blond hair and his arms covered with tattoos, he was leaned against the wall idly talking to a beautiful black woman. She had her hair tied back and, despite being relatively smaller than him, seemed to be giving him orders. I couldn't hear what they were talking, but they seemed so agitated.

In the living room floor there was a lamp without its shade, but the light wasn't on. Also, there were a few candles scattered around. I didn't have the time to see more than that as I walked toward the room where Gregory stood in front of the open door. I trotted up to him, hearing voices calling my name, but didn't respond to them. When Gregory turned to me, he seemed to have aged fifty years since the day we met.

"You'll let a vet take the bullet out of him?!" It was the first thing that came out of my mouth. It was like vomiting. I couldn't control it.

What I saw over his shoulder was a small dark room with nothing but a bed in which Christophe already rested, now looking half awake. Token turned his face to see what the commotion at the door was; whatever it was that he had been wearing before, now it was completely marred by a dark red. He wore a mask and latex gloves. Honestly, he looked like a total stranger. I recognized his gleaming eyes, the black iris mingling with the pupil. I could not see much; Gregory's slender body didn't allow me. But I saw enough to notice the tray full of sharp objects.

"You think that's what I wanted for him?!" Gregory barked in response. "But this isn't his first time working with us, Kyle. He's not just the best we have... He's the only one we have."

"You said you'd have a doctor here!"

"Go wash up, Kyle." He entered the room and pulled the door to close it, leaving only a gap big enough for his face. "You can not be here for this."

"No, fuck that, Gregory. Let me in."

"Kyle." He spoke to me in such a firm fatherly tone, but I could see it in his eyes how much he was hurting. How he didn't want to deal with me right now. "I'm trying to protect you too, alright? You've seen enough for today. Just back off."

Stan was already behind me, his gentle warm hands touching me. Gregory slammed the door right in my face; It wasn't his intention to be so aggressive, but he was terrified. I could understand that.

I could understand that very, very well.

As I said, I had lapses of consciousness throughout that night. I remember very vaguely to have a conversation with Stan about how I didn't want to wash up, I didn't want to eat, I just wanted to wait. That's the one thing I remember very well, wanting to wait. It was all I wanted to do, just to sit on the floor and be left alone. Stan said several things I couldn't understand. He explained to me that Butters had been shot seven time, that it was a miracle he was still alive and that he was comfortable in one of the rooms upstairs, that they were taking shifts to stand beside him in what appeared to be his last hours of life. He said Token did everything he could, but he didn't have the necessary resources and Butters certainly needed surgery to survive that, and even then there was no guarantee whatsoever. He also said that, if we took him to a hospital, the things they would do to him would be much, much worse than death.

That was true. That's another thing the resistance would eventually teach me: death was usually the kindest option.

When Stan realized that I couldn't listen, he just gave me a squeeze on the shoulder and stood up. He didn't stray too far from me, just enough to feel that he was giving me space. But I didn't feel that. There was no space in the room, it was stifling. The silence, the darkness, everything was stifling. I hugged my own knees and tried not to think. It was hot, very hot, I but shivered.

A few minutes later, Christophe started screaming.

I had never heard him scream like that. And to be honest, at that point in my life, I had never heard _anyone_ scream like that. The cries on the street earlier were a mass of bangs mixed with sounds of gunfire and dread, but this... This was so close, so real. It was the cry of someone who not only had been shot, but who now had a fucking hand inside his body, inside the torn apart flesh, without any anesthesia.

I squinted my eyes. My hands were joined very close to my face, my elbows resting on my thighs. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks every time I blinked; It was no longer a hearty cry of despair, but of pure and genuine suffering to know that someone so important to me was in so much pain and there was nothing I could do. Breathing already seemed like an impossible task. My eyelids would not open; and the way I felt, I was sure they would never open again. I lowered my head until my face touched my intertwined fists; looking from outside, maybe one would think I was praying. But I was not.

And the Mole wouldn't stop screaming.

It was as if they were torturing him in there.

This went on for hours straight. What I can remember from those hours are just a few specific moments related to people who approached me.

The first were Wendy and Bebe. The Bebe's blond, frizzy hair seemed wilder than ever. She had dark circles, but she was also clean and carried in her eyes a comforting, maternal smile. She wore a black band that was lost in the middle of all that hair. He had also a sandwich on a red plastic plate. Wendy knelt beside me and put her hand on my shoulder.

"Kyle"- She called in a voice that smoothed me, so gentle. I looked at her, and only then, she also smiled. I could not reciprocate. "Sweetie, you should eat something."

I just shook my head; my pupils turned back to the wooden floor, staring at the ugly moss green carpet that adorned the room. It was dark, the lamp was now on and bathed the room in this sad poor light. I held my own legs and cringed a little. Bebe came in front of me, putting the plate on the floor.

"Don't you want to see Butters?" Wendy asked. "He's upstairs. He'd love to see you."

"Later... I'll go later." I muttered in response.

It didn't really occur to me that there could be no later.

"Darling." Bebe said, putting a pale hand on my knee and giving a little squeeze. "Staying here torturing yourself won't help anyone. Don't you even want the sandwich? I made it."

A weak groan escaped my lips in response, but it was incomprehensible, so I shook my head again. My eyes were heavy. I really wanted to stay in silence.

"Alright then. We'll just leave it here if you want it later, okay?" Wendy said, getting closer to give me a kiss on the top of my head.

"Thanks."

"And don't you worry." Bebe continued, smoothing my leg. "I've seen how your man killed that sapper who attacked me. He's a tough cookie, that one, he'll be just fine."

"They're not..." Wendy replied before I had the time to say anything (although I never intended to). She even glanced at Stan, who was just behind us, standing against the wall. I did not move.

"Oh." Bebe muttered, but as much as the smile oscillated, it never left her lips completely. She nodded in comprehension. Her teeth were so beautiful. "Okay then. I'm sorry. But your friend will be fine, sweetie, they know what they're doing."

I wanted to let out a wry laugh about it, but I had no strength. And it would have been cruel to her, she was being an angel to me that night. But I could barely think. The two exchanged a worried look before leaving me alone.

At some point, my head began to weigh so much that I had to lay on the floor.

In addition to Christophe's screams, the other sound that filled the room was Clyde's deep crying. It hadn't stopped yet. Not even for a second. He went upstairs for a bit to keep Butters company, but he soon returned, his compulsive crying coming back with him. Craig had not moved an inch. They were next to each other, just as before. Craig staring at nothing, Clyde with his face buried in hands, crying like a child. He had always been like one; he had always been a big kid. I watched them for a while, closing and opening my eyes from time to time.

Suddenly, Craig stood up abruptly.

"Shut up!" He yelled to Clyde, grabbing a small mirror hanging on the wall and smashing it to the ground. "Shut your fucking mouth, are you trying to make me lose my fucking mind?! Shut the fuck up and swallow it, you fucking baby! Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up! I can not stand listening to you for another second!"

Stan and Wendy rushed up to them. Stan pulled Craig back, holding him tight in his arms before he actually attacked Clyde, who cowered like a cornered animal. Wendy took Clyde in her arms and he broke into her embrace, wanting to disappear. I could relate to that. He gripped Wendy's wrist so hard that it would leave marks. Stan pulled Craig out of the house. This may sound strange, but I was watching the commotion with no impulse to react. No will to get up from the floor and do anything about it. It was like things in that room were happening in a different dimension that I couldn't even reach. So I laid there. Staring. At them, at the floor, at nothing at all.

It was too much noise. My eardrums couldn't stand it. Fuck, I needed silence.

A few minutes later, Eric Cartman sat beside me. I was still lying down. He had a bottle of cheap drink in his hand; the alcohol smell was awful. He sniffed once. For quite some time, he said nothing. It made me believe he really just wanted to be in someone's company in silence. I was okay with that.

"Kenny was already in the van." Cartman suddenly said. It took me long seconds to turn my face to him. That man seemed so big now.

He laughed. It wasn't loud, outrageous or obnoxious, like Cartman's laughing used to be. He approached the bottle to his lips, shaking his head. Although his mouth still smiled, his eyes were full of sorrow.

"He was already in the freaking van." He repeated.

But I did not answer him. I went back to look forward, blinking slowly, resting my head on my own arm. I was too apathetic to react. To think of Kenny, his smile, his courage. Or to think of Butters. his gigantic heart, his purity. Or to think of Christophe. Christophe…

I had no more tears to offer that day.

"I managed to save him. I did exactly what I was supposed to." Cartman spoke, looking at his feet, pouring the bottle in his mouth from time to time. "And yet that fucking asshole jumped out of the van and... You know why? Guess." He waited for me to answer, but it was unsuccessful. I did, however, turned my gaze to him again. And Cartman was discreetly wiping tears from his eyes. "He needed to find you. You and Stan. That idiot... How could he be so fucking dumb? He died trying to save you and couldn't even find you. Now both of you are here and he's not."

My stomach turned over every word that left his mouth. I suddenly sat up, thinking that I would vomit if I stayed in that position. My head throbbed; behind my eyes, the pain was even more acute.

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty?" I asked, spitting out my anger on him.

Now it was Cartman's turn to take forever to respond. He licked his bottom lip, not looking directly at me. Thoughtful. He took another slow sip from the green glass bottle and then left it very close to me, knocking it on the ground.

"Guilty? No. I was just wondering if any of you faggots would jump from a moving van for me." And with that, Cartman rose again from the ground. He pointed at the bottle and gave me a bitter smile. "Have yourself a drink. You're gonna need it. From the way shit looks right now, your french loverboy won't come out of that room alive."

If I still had any strength left in my arms, I would have thrown that damn bottle on his head. I'm not joking. But at the same time, I had no desire of doing so. Because I believed what he was telling me was true. Maybe that was Cartman's sickening way to prepare for the worst.

Once Stan came inside the house again and saw Cartman walking away from me, he almost came running.

"What did that asshole say to you?"

I shook my head, covering my face with both hands, rubbing my eyes and running my fingers through my hair. I thought it was best not to tell him about the reason why Kenny wasn't there with us. The reason why he had left the safety of the car. Stan didn't need any more weight to carry.

"Nothing. He's worried about Kenny."

Stan's eyes seemed incredibly sad all of the sudden. He didn't show it, but knowing him as well as I did, he was very easy to see through. He cleared his throat and looked around before sitting down beside me, pulling away the bottle Cartman had left behind.

"_No, no, no, please! Just fucking… I can't! I can't, I can't take it_!" Christophe's voice filled the room.

Stan looked like he was about to cry.

"Hey, listen..." He whispered to me but kept his face close enough. By this time, Christophe was no longer shouting, but silence never lasted. Token had probably given him a few seconds of mercy. It had been like that all night, sometimes he wouldn't be able to talk at all, sometimes he'd scream things in French and I was so selfishly relieved that at least this way I couldn't understand him. But then, when he went silent, the only thing I could think was that it meant he was dead. At least, while he was screaming, I knew he was surviving it. His sounds created a malaise and a ghastly silence in the living room. It was very difficult to divert attention from it. I tried to focus my attention on Stan the best I could. "Are you sure you don't want to shower? Gregory has some clean clothes. I don't think we'll be able to go home anytime soon."

"I'm fine." I lied.

"You're not. You..." He interrupted whatever he was about to say because the cry that came from the room was too squeaky to ignore. I cringed, wanting to cover my head with my hands, but Stan grabbed my arm in support. I felt the way he was looking at me, the way he had been watching me the whole night. "Don't you wanna talk about what happened there?"

About Christophe getting shot and bleeding in my arms, about why I was covered in blood, that's what he meant. And I wish I could have given him a better response, a more dignified one, something beyond the mediocre head shake that I was giving everyone else, but I lacked strength to do better.

Yet he was still there, so close, staring at me with those blue eyes full of love. And I stared back for a long time. Finally, I reached out my hurt hand to grab his.

And the more Christophe screamed, even against all my will, more tears formed in my eyes. I tried not to shed them, but it was all in vain at that point. I swore I had no more tears to cry, but apparently, I was wrong.

"Kyle." Stan said, giving me a short kiss on the shoulder, his hand tightly entwined in mine. "Mole is... He's a soldier. He's made of iron, c'mon, he's the strongest son of a bitch here. If anyone is going to make it out alive, that's him. I know it sounds bad, but... It's good that he's in pain now. It means he's alive."

I can't imagine how hard it must have been for him to tell me those things. Because I'm pretty sure that, at some point over the recent months, Stan wished that something like that happened to Christophe. Well, not really. God, no, of course not. He may have wished for him to not exist, to disappear, but none of those things on a real level. That's what I could see in his face; he could hate the Mole with all his guts, but was unable to wish true ill on another human being. And now there he was, holding my hand, comforting me about the possible death of the person who, somehow, took a piece of me from him. That's how I knew it. Maybe not on a real level, but I knew it: I would never be able to leave Stan. I didn't know who I was without him, I wasn't strong enough to face the world without Stan. He was too good for that world. It was impossible not to love a person like him.

But there, at that moment, I wasn't even thinking about any of that. It was just a feeling. Somehow, it comforted me.

Before I could say anything back, someone opened the front door and Stan let go of my hand. He got up immediately, impulsively, almost desperate. He stood in the same place for no more than a second, just to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

And Stan ran toward the door. When I finally turned to know what he was seeing, and for the first time that night, my expression wasn't apathetic. I covered my mouth with both hands by the sight of Kenny's smiling face when Stan crashed his body against Kenny's and the two embraced in the tight hug of those who thought they would never see each other again. There was a general commotion in the room; Wendy began to cry, something so hard to see. I looked around for Cartman with mys eyes, but he should have gone to stay with Butters.

When Kenny and Stan finally let go of each other, I could see him right. I tried to stand up with difficulty as he walked toward me, not really smiling anymore, his eyes heavy with concern. I never managed to get up completely; my body faltered by dizziness, lack of food or sleep, whatever it was. But Kenny held me tightly, and when he couldn't pull me up, he knelt with me and held my body close to his, his face buried in my shoulder, breathing heavily, relieved.

"I got you, boy." He whispered in my ear.

I fell apart. And at some point in this sequence of events, Christophe was silent.

Kenny didn't have a single scratch in the body. He wore a white shirt that I was almost sure it was not the same one he'd been wearing earlier, but it did not matter now. It was one of ours who had returned.

He cupped my cheek, smoothing my skin with his thumb and smiled.

"You all right?" He asked, looking around the room. Before I could answer, other people approached and his question is dissipated in the air; there were many things he did not know and I was not able to tell them.

Stan was still standing a few steps from us. He rubbed his face, breathing deeply, but it seemed like a bit of weight had been lifted from his shoulders. They began to ask Kenny questions (where were you, how did you escaped, someone else survived?), but he failed to answer any of them. Wendy held him firmly by the arm and told him about Tweek, about Butters, about Bradley and Red who had also failed to return by then. About Christophe too, but that name she spoke more softly, as if I wasn't right beside them to hear.

I was waiting the for relief, any relief that could ease the tight knots in my chest, and as happy as I was to see Kenny (God knows I was) standing there unhurt, the relief never came. The first thing he wanted to do was to go upstairs to see Butters, something I hadn't done yet. It's awful to say… Fuck, I didn't even want to think about that, but maybe a weaker part of me was hoping that Butters could get his rest before I had the strength to climb the stairs and see him that way. He was always so cheerful, so light, like a child. Regardless of anything, Butters was an optimist. I could not imagine seeing him disappearing into a bed. I had spent that entire fucking day watching the Mole slip into his death, I could not go through that again.

Stan was coming and going through that room. He first went upstairs with Kenny, then he came down and began to help people wash scratches, cuts, minor injuries. Stan never stopped. He was always helping someone.

Christophe made no sound for a long time. Before I had come to a point where I thought his cries would make me go fucking crazy, but his silence was much, much worse. There was no sound coming from that room. The door was still closed. If he were dead, they would have already come out, wouldn't they? That's what I told myself.

I have no idea how much time passed and I was still there on the same place, too scared to move. Kenny came down again. I felt his warmth coming even before he sat down beside me, his legs crossed Indian style, holding his own heels. He said nothing for a long time, just stood there with me. Kenny was like that. He always knew what a person needed.

I laid my head to the side and ran my fingers through my own hair, scratching above the ear, staring at the ground as I said. "If you came here to convince me to eat something... Or to take a shower..." I paused, sucking the air through my mouth, closing my eyes, letting the unshed tears finally roll down my cheeks. "I swear to God, if you came here to tell me how strong Christophe, I'll… I'll lose my goddamn mind. So please, just… Just don't."

"I would do no such thing." His voice was velvety, tender, but also full of melancholy. He put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me against him gently, until I laid my head on his shoulder. "Tell me. How can I help?"

"You're alive. That helps."

I could hear that he was smiling, but it wasn't a real smile. No one really smiled in that house.

"Have you gone to see Butters?" He asked, stroking my hair. I shook my head. Kenny was quiet for a few seconds. He sighed. "Look, babe... I know you don't want to get up, okay? I know you don't think you can. But... It's really important to say things we have to say while people are still here. While they're alive. He's alive, Kyle. You should go there."

My heart sank when he said that.

I nodded, but didn't move. I didn't want to think of what to say to Butters because I didn't want to think I'd be saying goodbye to him.

"Do you think he'll die?" I asked.

"Who, Mole?"

I paused.

"No, Butters."

"Oh. I don't know, Kyle. Maybe it's..." he began, but stopped suddenly and shook his head from side to side, pushing the thought away. Somehow, I caught what he meant, but didn't dare to say: Butters was too good for this world, too sweet for that war. Maybe it was best for him to rest now. Worst days were on their way.

Kenny just covered my head with his hand and continued to fondle me slightly with his fingers in silence.

Soon, the door opened. I immediately untangled myself from Kenny and leaned both hands on the floor. The one who appeared in the doorway was Gregory. He no longer wore the coat, had his white shirt completely smeared in fresh blood, but with spots of dry and dark blood from hours ago. He held a cloth in his right hand, also stained. He wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and leaned his arm against the doorjamb, breathing deeply. All eyes in that room were staring at him expectantly. I had never seen Gregory look so defeated in my life.

That was it. This was the moment. Christophe was silent, that look on Gregory's face... I was ready for him to just shake his head in a gesture that says enough: he didn't make it.

But that's not what happened. After taking a breath, Gregory raised his head. "He..." His voice was weak, cornered. "He lost a lot of blood."

I was so sure I was going to throw up, but I had nothing in my stomach. I filled my lungs with air and let my head fall forward, clawing the ground. Kenny ran his hand down my back.

"Shh, it's okay." Kenny whispered. Maybe he just sensed things first. Maybe he would have said that about whatever outcome that night had.

"But he's alive." Gregory finally said, nodding his head as if to assure all those afflicted faces that it could be much worse. "He finally passed out. Token doesn't think..." His voice faltered. He paused, swallowing hard. He widened his eyes without realizing it. "Token thinks he'll die without a blood transfusion."

"He… Wait, can he do that?" Wendy asked, frowning.

Gregory kept his mouth open, but took some time to answer. "Token says he came prepared. The things is... The bastard is O negative. Now, I know the chances are very..." Gregory closed his eyes. It was so clear that he was falling apart on the inside and trying with all his forces remain whole. As he shivered and looked for the right words, I sought Stan with my eyes. "Is anyone here…?"

Before I could react in any way, Stan stepped away from the wall, uncrossing his arms.

"I am." He said. He didn't look at me as he did so. He and Gregory stared at each other as if they took some time to process what was happening. "I'm O negative."

"You…? And can you do it? I mean..." Not even Gregory knew exactly what he meant; he squeezed the cloth in his hand, making the blood come dripping between his fingers.

"Yeah. Of course I can."

I wanted Stan to look at me as he approached Gregory. There was a void in his blue eyes, his trembling lips, but there was no doubt in his gait. Gregory grabbed his arm with a tight grip; the corners of his mouth rose slightly. Perhaps this was his way of saying thank you.

"I'll be right back. Token has some questions for you first." Gregory said, giving room for Stan to go in. The bedroom door was closed again.

Without facing anyone else, Gregory marched toward the front door. Try as he might to demonstrate that steady pace of one who owns the whole world, walking with his chin up like he never errs, he looked like a hopeless drunk. It was too cruel how each person in the room was watching him.

Supporting my weight on Kenny's shoulder, I finally stood up and went after him.

Suddenly, walking didn't seem so hard anymore. I pushed the door open and stopped in the middle of the porch, a little disconcerted by the scene: Gregory tore his shirt buttons open like he needed to get rid of that fabric at all costs, hyperventilating, unable to breathe, as if his clothes were suffocating him. Each breath he took made a terrible sound. He was leaning forward as if he'd been punched, hand squirming close to his abdomen after his chest was already exposed, his shirt open. I went down the porch steps running to approach him, both of us in the middle of those dry leaves in the dark garden, a little freezing rain falling from the sky. Only drops.

Gregory cried. Even I cried when I got close and held his face tightly with both hands, forcing him to look at me. It was too dark to see properly, but I could recognize his mouth open and his eyes wide, wet, desperate. He held my arm tightly, digging his fingertips because he needed to hold on to something.

"Breathe." I said quietly but firmly, squeezing my hands on his face. "Breathe, Gregory."

"He'll die." He spit in my face, shaking his head vigorously. He seemed to at least be able to get air in his lungs now. "He... He won't survive this, Kyle. He won't, he can't. And I can't. I can't do this without him. All of this... I can't, without him I can't. Everyone looks at me looking for a leader, I am not a leader, I don't... I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, Kyle."

"Gregory."

"They're just kids!" He yelled at my face. "They're kids and I've put them through this! Have you seen Butters?! I did this!"

I stared back with severe, unyielding expression, because Gregory needed a rock. A few minutes before, I never thought that would be able to be that someone. Not for him, not for anyone else. But the need always shapes us. I let him talk. And didn't let his fall frighten me. Not after everything I'd been through that fucking miserable day.

"Gregory. You listen to me. Tweek Tweak was trampled to death today. I watched it. Butters was shot seven fucking times and probably won't make it through the night. Bradley and Red disappeared. And I'm just talking about the people we know and love. Many other young people were killed today because they believed in what we are doing. You did not kill them. The government did. And yes, maybe Christophe..." My voice trailed off for a moment. "Maybe he won't survive. But if he dies, all the grieving people in there will need you even more. You were a leader before the Mole appeared and you'll remain one until the day they kill you. Do you understand?"

Slowly, he nodded. His eyes looked frightened, but there was sanity in them. And in response, Gregory hugged me. Tight. Like he needed my body to keep standing up. And I held him back, relieved for the first time that night, so glad to be his rock for a change.

It's funny, we had known each other for a lifetime, shared an apartment, but that was probably our first hug. Tight, suffocating, necessary. A prelude of the hell we would go through together.


	20. The Rest

November 12, 3644

Butters Stotch died peacefully at 09:30 am., in the same bed he had been lying on since the previous afternoon. I got to see him alive, which was so important and I could only realize how much once he really passed away. I was up all night, needless to say. No one slept that night. At least no one in the house, perhaps no one in the whole town. Around 06:15 am, knowing that the Mole was stable and sleeping, I went to visit Butters in his room. I didn't get to see Christophe before that, we were instructed to let him rest. The upstairs floor consisted in a long corridor, so long that it was discomforting, like it would never end. There should be only four or five doors on each side, ten bedrooms in total... I don't know, I didn't count. All I know is that it was very narrow, the dark green damask wallpaper was peeling all over, revealing the wood underneath. The house was very old. Down the hall, there was a dirty window with a broken glass, but letting some light in to clear the way. Butters' room was the first one; Token took care of his wounds downstairs, but when he realized that there was nothing more he could do for him, they decided to move him to the top floor in an attempt to offer more comfort, leaving the downstairs room free for new wounded people who could still arrive. They had an old stretcher that helped quite a lot in the process of transporting Butters to the room he was in.

Butters was a ray of sunshine, he'd always been. That hair, as blond as if his mother had washed it with lemon and let him in the sun when he was a baby, only made this point even stronger. He didn't seem scared and no longer felt pain, or maybe he was just trying to look strong. He looked like a small child in that old bed, full of bandages. When we climbed the stairs, Stan held me by the sleeve and whispered in my ear that they had pierced Butters' eyes, probably trying to prepare me for what I would see. Fuck, they tortured a boy on the streets in broad daylight. Looking at him, it was hard to understand how anyone could have survived what they did to him. Butters was a real fighter.

His eyes were covered by a bloodstained bandage. He wore no shirt, but was covered up to his chest by a comforter of rough texture. As soon as I saw him, I started crying. Just when I thought I had no more tears to give. I was already close enough for him to recognize my voice. Butters turned his face to me very slowly, extending his weak hand; I grabbed it immediately, intertwining my fingers with his. He said my name, smiling, but it was evident in his voice that he was disappearing little by little.

"I'm so glad you're okay..." He told me.

"Shh. Stay quiet." I said with a sad smile, stroking his soft face. "Don't waste your energy."

Wendy was holding his other hand, sitting on the other side of the bed. She had sunken eyes, the sides of her mouth slightly droopy, her face swollen from crying, but now there were no more tears running down. He held Butters' hand with a strong grip, sitting her back straight, very much awake. I also sat on the old stool next to the bed. Stan sat on the bed next to me, stroking Butters' leg over the blanket, talking to him in a cheerful and reassuring tone. I had no idea how he could do this. Stan was a much stronger person than I was. When someone needed him, he could leave all of own fear and grief aside to support and reassure, be whatever the person needed him to be. I had no doubt how much his heart ached. Stan was destroyed inside, but in front of Butters, he tried not think about those things. He didn't want Butters' last moments to be sad.

I didn't want that either. But it was impossible.

I had been awake for over 24 hours, completely exhausted. I laid my head on the mattress, very close to Butters, feeling his warmth close to my face. I didn't get to actually fall asleep. Didn't let go of his hand at any time. Stan patted my hair and stood up. In the following hours, there were people moving in and out of the room constantly. Bebe was present the whole time, even though she didn't really know Butters, giving him water in his mouth like he was a baby, massaging Wendy's back, asking if anyone needed anything. She had a maternal energy. I didn't really know that girl, but even so, I was glad to have her there. It wasn't her friends who were dying and yet she came with compassion, strength and freshness to keep us standing. She seemed like a good person.

Clyde also appeared often in this three-hour period, the last three hours of Butters' life. But Clyde was too restless to sit down. He came in, exchanged a few words with us, sat a little, got up, walked to the window, then went downstairs, returned with coffee that no one wanted to drink. Craig didn't show up.

I could hear Cartman crying in the hallway and Kenny's low voice talking to him. Stan opened the door to leave the room and I saw a glimpse of Cartman and Kenny hugging each other tightly. I remembered how anxious Cartman was for thinking that Kenny hadn't survived and somehow felt guilty about it. Maybe he was crying out of both relief and despair, because at this point, the joy didn't come with those who had survived. But seeing Kenny like that, standing tall, in one piece, sane enough to comfort a large, rugged man like Cartman, I was thanking any divine force that had brought him back to us. The same divine force that made Christophe survive the last night. And perhaps, the same one that took Butters and Tweek.

Although I was still waiting for Gregory to come up with the news that Christophe hadn't made it either. But he didn't.

When Butters took his last breath (no last word, only a sigh full of peace), there were five people in the room: Stan, Wendy, Kenny, Cartman and me. Others were waiting outside, those who weren't so close to him, trying to give us some privacy. Only then, Stan cried. We spent at least five minutes embraced in silence. Kenny and Wendy held hands, standing beside Butters' bed. Cartman staggered to the window. He threw up. I wanted to get closer to him, but Wendy went first and I was relieved for it. I had no strength to hold anyone else.

Only after all that, I finally went to take a shower. There was no hot water in the house, we had to heat the water in buckets on a fucking freezing ass November day, but it didn't really matter. It was bath nevertheless. It was only by watching all that blood running down the drain along with water that I realized just how filthy I was. I took a good look at my own body. There were purple bruises, scratches, nothing more. Mostly my hands and knees were skinned and it hurt a bit to wash them. I didn't even remember how the hell I had gotten those bruises.

Stan had shown me the room where we would sleep in, the second to last down the hall. The room was empty when I left the bathroom. There were two beds, a double and a single, plus a mattress on the floor. No bedding. There were clean clothes folded on the bed, as Stan said there would be. That's what I put on. Beige pants of good fabric, much better than the clothes I owned. A white tank top and a navy blue sweater. I put on the same dirty shoes I wore earlier. When coming down, I passed by Butters' room and the door was ajar. His body was covered by the yellow blanket, even his face.

Everybody was down there, at least everyone who mattered to me. Kenny made omelets, one after another, in a little portable iron stove. He had red watery eyes that he tried to hide, wiping tears with his sleeve, never stopped working as the tears came down The house had no heating and the morning was cold. Stan put his hand on the small of my back as got closer, offering me a banana. It was the first thing I had to eat since the day before. No one said anything in that kitchen. The cabinets were old, not all of them had doors, there were cobwebs everywhere. There was a wood burning stove, the pan Kenny used was rusty. It was not that kind of space purposely designed to look old-fashioned, it was just poor.

Cartman, Wendy, Bebe, the blondie boy in the ridiculous outfit, Scott, Jason and Annie ate silently, some of them standing, others sitting at the table. The door to the back garden was open and there were people out there. Patty, Molly, Lisa, some girls that I've never been very close to. They were crying. They were talking about Red, but I couldn't hear it very well.

I didn't want to hear people cry. I got back to the room after eating.

"I don't get it." I heard a familiar voice. It belonged to Token. I still hadn't seen him. He was wearing a clean white shirt and jeans, barefoot, no drop of blood in sight. Good. Better that way. I was afraid that, when I finally saw him, he would still be smeared with blood. He was standing, arms crossed, talking to Clyde and Craig who were sitting on the couch. His voice sounded so hurt. "How many times have we met in the university and I talked about the students going missing?! You never said anything. How the hell could you guys not trust me?! We've known each other for a fucking lifetime, for Christ's sake."

"It's not that we didn't trust you." Clyde said, but Craig soon talked over him.

"Token, your parents are the devil's advocates. Literally. Sorry man, but it's true, your family finances the slaughter. Obviously we weren't exactly confident to involve you."

"Kyle's mom is the biggest pro-government activist in this state, and yet, here he is." While saying this, Token pointed in my direction. Then I realized that they weren't too involved in the argument to notice my presence.

"Yeah, but his family is as exploited as ours, he wasn't born with a silver spoon in his mouth just because his mother is retarded." Craig said in his unexceptional mono-tone, turning his gaze to me and shrugging as if he was saying 'sorry, but it's true.' I didn't react to that, God knows I wasn't one to defend my mother's honor at that point.

Token looked so sad. Genuinely sad. He crossed his arms, his sleeves folded to the elbows, looking a lot more slovenly than he normally would. And so, he looked more human.

"I really wish you guys had trusted me. I spent the last month in Denver, caring for the wounded there. I was ready to travel to New York when Gregory contacted me. To take care of _my __own_ childhood friends. I had to learn through him that you were risking your necks. It makes no sense."

"We should have told you." Clyde said, taking both hands to the back of his neck and lowering his head a bit. "We're sorry. Okay? I'm just happy to see you."

This seemed make Token take his guard down for a few seconds. He parted his lips to say something, then stopped. He shook his head without knowing exactly what to say, or so it seemed, as he walked from one side of the room to the other.

"I just… I really wish I'd had more time with Tweek." He said.

"It's still hard to believe." Clyde murmured, taking his hands from his neck and joining them in front of his mouth, one foot tapping restlessly on the ground, back arched. "I just can't. I can't believe it, I keep waiting for him to walk through that door."

"I don't." Craig then said, getting up from the couch with his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on me. "I saw it. I saw what was left of him. I saw his skull crushed, his intestines out." His voice was not dead as usual. It was trembling, haunted, full of pain. But his face was apathetic, except for his eyes, which shone in sadness. He turned his face to his friends. "I only recognized that stupid shirt he wore. Believe me, he won't come back."

"Stan said you saw him when he was still alive." Clyde said softly to me, wincing. "Do you… Do you think he suffered too much?"

"He was trampled to death, Clyde, what the fuck do you think?!" Craig interrupted before I could say anything. "Jesus, sometimes I wonder if there's even a brain in there."

"I know you're in pain, but you don't have to be cruel." The words left my mouth, but my brain wouldn't follow very well. Craig didn't look back at me. He was like a brick wall staring at nothing, pale, empty. You always think that the strong ones are those who don't cry, but those strong walls with no feelings are the ones who fall apart faster than anybody else. There was something nasty happening to Craig and he only knew how to express aggressively. I approached the three of them a little more. "I think it was fast. He soon lost consciousness. You know, Tweek was much, much stronger than people generally thought. I... I tried to help him, but it happened so fast. What I know is that, as scared he was, he was willing to die for what he believed. I'm sorry that his time has come so quickly. You can't imagine how much."

"It's too easy to feel sorry when both of your boyfriends are still alive, isn't it?" Craig replied bitterly, covering his mouth soon after because he didn't want to cry. But it was crystal clear. "You haven't lost anyone."

"Craig." Token said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Tweek saved my life." I replied after a short break, breathing heavily. "And Stan's. And Christophe's. He was terrified of guns, but he learned how to use one and he killed a sapper that probably would have blown up our skulls. I owe him a lot." I think that explaining these things aloud, remembering Tweek's frightened eyes as he got smashed against the asphalt, remember the night before, when he was still alive and healthy to face what terrified him the most and give me at least one more day of life... All of that seemed to have happened a thousand years ago, not two days. And it was too much for me. My eyes were red again. "I would have given anything for a chance to help him."

Clyde rubbed his face at first, then kept it hidden in his hands, his head fallen forward, crying again. I felt horrible for triggering that to him. Craig didn't break eye contact with me, even when I tried to look away. These three (four, if you count Tweek) always had the kind of connection that I had with Kenny, Stan and Cartman from childhood, so I took a step back, feeling like an attacker. I headed to the front door, but my feet stopped and I turned my body around instinctively so I could say one last thing. "He might not have been a brother to me like he was to you, but Tweek was my friend. Butters was my friend. Don't say I haven't lost anyone. We all have."

And then finally, I went to the porch. I hoped I wouldn't have to talk to anyone for the next few hours. It was so fucking cold outside, the fine fabric of that sweater didn't do a very good job at keeping the heat in, but it didn't really bother me. I just sat there in silence.

Twenty minutes later, Stan appeared. It was a relief to see him.

"Hey." He said hoarsely, as if he had just woken up (though it wasn't the case). He sat on the small and dusty wooden stairs of the porch, right next to me, his legs apart and his hands together, his arms resting on the knees.

We were in silence for almost a minute. Until the words came out of my mouth, like a brand new realization. "Butters died."

Stan squinted, shaking his head as one who reproves something. '_This is so wrong_,' I could hear his thoughts. He rubbed his hands on his thighs to warm them up. He was wearing a black hooded jacket that looked very comfortable.

"We were talking about doing a funeral, maybe. A small ceremony, like a vigil. We don't have any other bodies, but we lost more people."

"Good. That's good." I agreed, nodding.

Because I knew that everyone in the house was wondering if people would start dropping like flies from then on and the dead couldn't be honored with ceremonies. I even wondered if the bodies would become just that; only bodies, as piles of dead soldiers in the trenches, when death has another meaning and you can only think of survival. I wasn't ready for that. I didn't want to completely cut off the rituals of normal life.

When we fall silent again, I rested my head on his shoulder. I felt his warm cheek resting against the top of my head, his big hand on my thigh. I slid a hand down his arm to turn his palm up and our fingers intertwined.

"We should get some sleep." He suggested. "The funeral is only in the afternoon. We still wanna wait, see if more people show up."

For some reason, I felt that this wouldn't happen. I didn't know yet that, in this kind of situation, you either get out with very few injuries, unharmed enough to be very agile and get away, or you just don't return. Because when they took you, it happened what had happened to Butters. At least that's how it worked at that time, in such a poorly trained group with no experience. In order to gain true experience, we had to lose a few of our own.

"Are you alright?" I asked, squeezing his hand. "Have you eaten? You can pass out if you don't eat after donating blood."

"What?" It was his distracted reply. "Oh. Yeah, I ate."

I lifted my head to look at him, as if to make sure that he was telling me the truth. His face was very close, so pale, with dark circles under his blue eyes. His skin almost had a greyish tone, perhaps because that whole day was gray. The sky was completely white, no opening to the rays of the sun. I felt the grip of Stan's hand loosen in mine.

"Thank you." I said, but there was a tightness in my chest that made me doubt what I was saying. The words sounded stupid, I could hear it. "For doing this."

'_For__ giving __him your__ blood_.' Maybe I was too young at the time to understand that he hadn't done it for me. Even then, that wasn't exactly what I thought, but I also didn't know how to approaching the subject without feeling like I was talking bullshit. I felt thankful. I truly did.

Stan just chuckled like he didn't quite believe what he heard. He let go of my hand completely and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants as he rose.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean..." I tried, because he looked disturbed all of the sudden.

"No." Stan cut me off. His voice was weak, not really defensive as I would expect. "Look, I know we have a lot to talk about, but not now. Not a few hours from Butters' funeral, not when the Mole is still at risk. I just..." He didn't look directly into my eyes. His gaze wandered around the porch steps, the wall of the house or even the horizon. When he finally turned to me, he spoke firmly. "I never wanted him to die."

"Stan..."

"You think about it when you get really pissed, everybody does. _'__I wouldn't mind if the__fucking__ bastard __got__ shot. th__at__ son of a bitch_,' I thought those things, Kyle. You made me feel that. And then he... He did get shot, he almost died for real, and I'd never felt so fucking guilty in my life." Stan took a long pause, swallowing saliva buildup in his mouth, tightening his jaw. He held his breath without realizing it. His voice trembled, full of regret. "I can't be this bitter guy who wishes that shit on another human being. Not here, not when people are actually fucking dying all the time."

It was unbearable to see him that way. So I said the only thing I could. "You saved his life."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't make me feel better! It changes nothing." He covered his face with both hands just to rub it quickly, his feet moving without actually getting out of the same place. "Look... I just need to sleep. After what happened yesterday, nothing else is important. You're right, yesterday I've spent hours thinking that maybe you were dead, regretting every cruel thing I've ever said to you. But you're here now, you're alive and he's alive, and I just... I just want to sleep, Kyle."

I smiled. I reached out to him so he'd help me up and we went to our new room together.

Contrary to what I had thought, there was no one else in the room. We lay on the double bed, and even though there was no bedding at all, being able to lie down and feel Stan's warmth behind me was delicious, his hot breath on my neck, his arms wrapped around my torso, his legs twined in mine. I closed my eyes and the tears began to come without my noticing, the kind of tear that flows so slowly and so lonely it even tickles your face. My head throbbed.

Laying there with Stan in that strange room so far away from our home, from everything we were before that, I felt empty. Hollow inside. And, as if he could feel the physical pain in my heart, he slipped his hand up to my chest and left it there, like a relief. I squeezed his arm, digging my fingers into his flesh above the sleeve without measuring force.

I felt safe at last. Stan did this to me. During those seconds before falling asleep, it was like Butters had never died, Tweek had never been trodden on, Christophe had never been shot. More than that, it was like I had never met Christophe. Like we had never even joined the resistance. Like I had never lost my mother, at least as I knew her. Like we were back to the time when my brother could walk free in the streets and all the wrong things were too far away to touch us because we were young, and young people don't need to care about the rest of the world.

Thus, we slept for two hours.

Then, I discovered those seconds of transition between sleeping and waking up, when you just don't remember all the shit that has happened in your life so far. We must be very vulnerable when we sleep, because the bed is always so safe, so perfect. I've always hated waking up.

I was a little sweaty because of the bed's warmth and mostly Stan's body still curled up to mine, but his chest wasn't touching my back. I pressed my face against the pillow with no pillowcase, hard and thin, feeling a strange pain in the neck.

"Kyle." I heard a very low whisper close to my face.

Kenny's presence scared me. I pulled back a little before my sight could focus and I made sure it was a familiar face. Then my chest filled with relief to have that sort of freckled face with a crooked nose so close to me, because before I had the chance to realize where I was, all the memories of chaos came crashing down my brain. I blinked a few times, rubbing my own face, swollen from sleeping.

"What is it?" I replied quietly not to wake Stan up. I could hear another snoring in the room which definitely was not from Stan. He didn't snore. "What time is it?"

"Listen." Kenny took my hand. My heart almost came out my mouth and I thought for sure I was going to throw up all over the bed, because the look in his eyes... I sat up immediately, so abruptly that I didn't understand how the hell Stan didn't wake up. Kenny saw in my eyes that I was sure he was going to give me bad news. I couldn't stand it anymore, being so flooded with certainty that someone would tell me that Christophe hadn't survived. "Hey, hey. It's okay, don't worry. The Mole is awake." He whispered as he squeezed my shoulder with his free hand. "He's asking for you. I didn't want to wake you, but I thought you'd be pissed if I didn't."

I blinked a few times, confused.

"He…? He woke up?"

Kenny smiled. He smiled wide, genuine, showing his teeth, nodding. I jumped out of bed.

Because I had, indeed, met Christophe. Because Tweek had, indeed, been trampled. And Butters had, indeed, died. And I'd probably never see my family again. And my brother had to live in a fucking basement. All of this was true. The only thing left to do was to move on.

Christophe's room looked very different from how it was before. The curtains of the windows were wide open, everything looked very bright. Someone had cleaned all the blood off the floor, like he hadn't almost bled to death in that same room the night before. The first thing I saw was a man almost seven feet tall with very yellow hair, wearing a shirt with torn sleeves, his back to me. The man was sitting on the floor, his broad back blocking the vision of the mattress Christophe was lying on. But I could see his feet sticking out of the blue sheets, which brought a smile to my lips. There was also a young woman... I recognized her from the night before, but I couldn't remember clearly. She had curly hair all tied up, wearing a different outfit from when I first saw her, but there was no doubt she was the same girl who had been bossing the big guy around. The other guy in the room should be the same dude, her partner, the tattooed man she was talking to.

And, of course, Gregory was also there.

The door was already open, but I still knocked on the doorframe twice not to invade that moment that, somehow, seemed intimate.

The faces turned toward me. When the blond man moved, I finally could see Christophe's exhausted face. I let out a breath of relief without realizing it and stepped into the room. He blinked twice, slowly, looking so pale, moving his head slowly. But he smiled. It was a small one, the corner of his lips barely moving, but it was there. And it made me smile even wider.

"Get out of here." He told them with a drawl. It was apparent that breathing was hard, or maybe it just hurt him.

The man and the woman I didn't know exchanged a brief look, but didn't hesitate to walk out of the room. The blond guy firmly squeezed Christophe's arm before he got up without saying anything.

"Get well soon. We need you." The woman said in a gentle tone, walking toward the door. She offered me a brief greeting nod, unsmiling, and I did the same. The man who was following her, on the contrary, didn't even make eye contact with me. I was fine with that.

I approached the bed. Gregory was sitting next to the mattress, serving a glass of water from the jar next to him.

"You too." Christophe told him.

I bit my lower lip, feeling my face heat when Gregory gave me a quick look, too quick for me to understand what was the intention behind it. He showed no dissatisfaction, but his brow furrowed for a second.

Elegantly, he got up. He left the glass of water within Christophe's reach.

"Call me if you need anything."

On his way out, he shut the door.

I rubbed my left eye with a fist when I felt my eyelids threatening to form tears. Fuck that, I was so done with crying. But this one was different. Looking at his face made it impossible not to cry, I was so relieved. I had no time to think as I walked down the stairs to get there, but the whole time, I promised myself I wouldn't cry in front of him. Not that this kind of promise was worth a lot. Everything overflowed. For a second, I was afraid that maybe I was still up there sleeping and all of this was no more than a dream. He spent a lot of time just looking at me with a curious expression. He wore no shirt, was covered by the sheet up to his chest, his arms resting on top of the fabric. I held his forearm and squeezed it tightly, kneeling next to him.

Instead of talking, he raised his hand with difficulty and cupped my cheek with his big palm, which felt so hot against my skin. Feeling his warmth only made me cry more, maybe because I could remember so vividly of his skin getting colder and colder yesterday. I squinted and let out an anxious laugh, shaking my head like I didn't know what was happening to me, squeezing his wrist between my fingers and then stroking his warm skin.

"C'mon… Don't do that." He said, wiping my tears with his thumb. I had never heard him speak so softly. "Hey." There was no firmness in his voice, perhaps because he was too weak for that. His thumb stroked just below my eye, drying a hot tear that tried to trickle down my cheek. His touch was light. His eyes studied my expression. Looking from the outside, no one would say that Christophe was a sensitive person, but he had an extraordinary sensitivity to understand someone's expressions, no words needed. After some time in silence, he cleared his throat and said. "Your friends... They made it back?"

No one had told him, but he already felt it in the air that we had lost someone. He had probably noticed that in Gregory's eyes, which were sunken and guilty.

I shook my head, not really meaning yes or no, just lost, forgetting how to breathe for a few seconds. I closed my eyes, responding in a small voice. "Butters..."

Christophe took his hand away from my face and narrowed his eyes. They were very much alive, despite his pallor.

"That happy blondie?"

That tore me something between bursting into laughter and tears. I nodded, remembering Butters' rosy face, the smile full of small teeth, his optimism. I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, releasing a shaky, unhappy sigh.

He looked back at the ceiling, grimacing in pain. I didn't know whether it was physical or emotional pain. He shook his head from side to side, letting out a low curse. "Fuck, that boy was a good one."

That surprised me a little, but at the same time, it warmed my heart. I hadn't realized that Butters would fit into Christophe's rough criteria of what a good fighter would be. If Butters'd had the opportunity to know what the Mole thought about him, it would have certainly made him really happy. I wished Christophe would have told him that.

"He was the only wounded we managed to bring back." I spoke softly. "Besides you, I mean."

"He died here?"

"Yeah... We're doing a funeral in the late afternoon."

Christophe closed his eyes tiredly and nodded slowly with his head, letting it fall sideways on the pillow, his cheek leaning on his shoulder. "That's good. I want to go."

I swallowed the saliva in my mouth and reached out to touch his chest over the sheet, stroking it with my fingertips, then I slid my hand up to the side of his neck. My torso was bent over, the elbow resting on the mattress. I was almost laying down with him. The whole time, I kept thinking that he wasn't in condition to get up and walk, but I didn't tell him that. He was too stubborn to listen anyway.

"How do you feel?" I asked, nearly whispering.

His eyes wanted to shut, I could see it. He was still groggy, struggling to stay awake. I wanted to let him rest, but at the same time, the idea of having him away from me again formed a lump in my throat, in my chest. He gave me a bitter smile. "Like I've been shot."

I couldn't help but giving him a sad laugh, though he hadn't really said it to try and make me laugh. Or, at least, that's not what it looked like.

"You scared me, Mole." I spoke very close to his face, smoothing his hair back, laughter turning into repressed tears. No more tears flowed; I managed to stop them, clinging to the relief of having him so close to me, talking to me. Recovering himself. "I really thought..."

"Well, you couldn't just let a man die in peace, could you?"

"You get all funny when you almost die, huh?" I whispered, keeping the sad smile, tucking me in the mattress with him. I approached with great care not to touch his abdomen. "Your humor is horrible." I whispered, closing my eyes. He reached out to involve me, stroking the side of my torso with his weak hand. I laid my head on his shoulder. My face probably looked like shit, swollen from sleeping and crying, but at this point, it didn't matter. "You should go back to sleep."

He nodded lazily, his cheek resting on the top of my head, eyes closed. I don't know how long I spent there, listening to his heart beat, feeling his breath, assuring me little by little that he was alive and nothing would happen to him. He was okay. We would need to talk once we recovered some sense of normality, when he was stronger and Butters had already been buried. But now, it wasn't the time to think about that sort of thing.

Before falling asleep, he must have been through that sense of loss. He spent some time completely still, eyes closed, breathing easily, slipping to unconsciousness. But suddenly, his body made a little spasm and he raised his neck, alarmed, squeezing my arm and calling my name. The adrenaline was still running through his veins.

"Kyle?" He spoke, out of breath.

"Shh." I lifted my face to look at him, stroking his jaw, feeling the rudeness of his beard against my fingers. "I'm here, Christophe. You're okay now."


	21. The Rupture

November 12, 3644

I've read in our history books that, a long time ago, when someone died, they used to wait for seven days before doing a funeral in our country. It was a very curious rite of passage to deal with death. People brought food to the house of whoever had lost a love done, it had a religious connotation (a Christian one, in particular, at least in the Old America). I always enjoyed reading about the old world, how things worked thousand years before. But most of these habits were lost, along with religion. With the war and the great decline of our population, it was hard enough to be able to bury every person who passed away. During the war, the bodies were burned in piles, I once read. I wondered if they did the same with the fatalities in the Canadian war. I think it turned out to be an unholy habit for some, because of the war, while others still believed that cremation was the only and inevitable way.

Kenny suggested that Butters was burned instead of buried, but Stan looked at him with a certain sorrow in his eyes. In the end, we decided that this wasn't even a viable option. Making a fire big enough to burn a body would certainly attract unnecessary attention from the outside world.

It's a very weird conversation to have; deciding, along with your best friends, what to do with the dead body of one of ours. Until then, I had been crying. It's a surreal conversation too, it didn't feel like it had actually happened. That's why I consider the death rite of passage so important. You need to see the body taking its course to start believing it, to start understanding it.

Until then, I the only person I had ever buried was my grandmother and I was too young to understand what was really going on. I remember my mother holding me close, giving me this suffocating hug with her chubby arms, her strong perfume invading my nostrils, and she said "_it's okay, Bubb__y__, Grandma will rest now_."

Butters' death was the first major loss of my adult life. It marked the beginning of all the losses that I would still go through, all the people I'd still need to bury. And there would be quite a lot of them. I could feel it as I stood over the hole on the ground, the ditch, the grave where Butters would rest. I sniffled a bit because of the cold, or maybe a cry that wanted to come out. I didn't let it.

My heart ached. Not metaphorically, not as a silly expression, it really hurt in the physical sense, like a claw was trying to tear it off my chest.

I squinted and let out a low moan to keep the tears from coming. Then, I felt a warm hand reaching for mine, which made me look at my side and there was Kenny, trying to smile at me, but I could see that his heart ached too. I squeezed his hand so hard that I could have broken it. At least that's the feeling I had with Kenny's bony fingers tight between mine. Stan was right beside me too; or rather, behind me, close enough so that his chest lightly touched my back. I glanced at him. His pale skin contrasted so beautifully with his black hair. His eyes were slightly reddened, moist, just like his nose. He didn't take his eyes off Gregory, both hands together in front of his groin.

Gregory cleared his throat, folding his hands in front of body.

We were in the backyard, as unkempt as the front one. Well, there was no clear boundaries between the land of the house and the forest. There were borders in that land. The ground was covered with dry leaves that produced the idea of an orange carpet, so beautiful to look at. The whole scenery was beautiful and sad. The bare trees, the red sky full of clouds. Dusk was about to begin.

Stan, Cartman, Clyde and Token had dug most of the grave. Digging a hole in the ground proved to be a surprisingly complex task; I tried to help, as well as many others, but in the end it seemed better that there weren't to many people in that space. People get anesthetized in burials, seeking any stupid activities that made them able to keep their heads and hands busy.

Butters' body was lying right next to the hole, wrapped in a dirty white sheet, only his blond hair sticking out. It was for the best, since there was no color in his face that had once been so rosy and happy. He looked beautiful, he really did, I saw him just before he was wrapped in the sheet. The image remained fixed in my brain, his listless gray face, straight lips, his lacerated eyes. It is the last image you want to have of a friend. Despite all that, he looked peaceful, like he was sleeping. He wasn't in pain anymore. Where he was now, nobody could ever hurt him again.

That day, it became very clear how much people looked up to Gregory as a strong figure, seeking for his leadership, but mostly support. They asked him to do the initial speech, even though he wasn't one of Butters' closest friends. The truth was that no one, not even Gregory, knew what to say. Even those who didn't know Butters were present for the funeral because he represented all bodies that we could never bury.

"Butters was..." Gregory said, sucking the air through his mouth. He showed no desire to cry, he just seemed uncomfortable. He looked at all the people around that grave, his eyes filled with compassion, no matter what his pose remained intact and his expression remained hard as stone. It was very clear that he was about to say something out of what he had planned. This time, his voice was much more honest. "Listen, I know many of you had your spirit broken yesterday. I know many of you aren't even here for Butters, but for those who you'll never have a chance to bury. I want to tell you something, Butters would be honored for that. For… Being the person who, although in a very small way, warms the heart of every single one of you. And makes this horrible day a little bit easier."

He paused, closing his eyes. Mine got filled with tears before I could even realize it, so I brought my free hand to my mouth – I wore gray gloves that Stan had taken off and given to me, even though I told him not to - and, with it, I firmly held in everything that threatened to explode. Kenny wiped his own eyes, crying softly, trembling, and that's what held me together. Kenny crying. I couldn't fall apart. Not again, not anymore.

"It's okay to suffer." Gregory said in a much gentler tone. "It's your right. Here, you're with family. Lick your wounds, heal your bodies, take good care of each other, because you will need your strength to make sure that Butters, like all the others, didn't die for nothing. Honor this kid we're about to bury. Don't think of revenge. Don't lose focus. Remember fondly of your companions who are gone, but let them go. They're better now. They'll be watching over you."

I could feel Stan's nose against the nape of my neck, his forehead touching the back of my head. He leaned against me. I didn't need to turn around to know that his eyes were closed and he was crying silently, the tears never stopped coming. He wrapped his arm around my waist in a nurturing embrace, a shy one even, but it was all I needed to keep standing. I grabbed his arm with my left hand and tightened my grip around Kenny's hand with my right one. Cartman remained close to us, but not touching. I couldn't see him from where I was standing, since he was a little behind Kenny, but I couldn't avoid my concern. Cartman could be compared to a pressure cooker. If he opened up just a little at that state, he would completely burst. So he stood there, hands in his pockets, tall as a mountain. Nothing could take him down.

"I would like to propose that we remember traces of Butters we thought to be admirable and remarkable. Whoever wants to share it with us." Gregory finally said.

Then, my eyes met with Christophe's. He was on the other side of the grave, much further back than everyone else, so I hadn't seen until now. Trent, the giant blond man, was holding his arm like he was afraid Christophe would fall down. He shouldn't be out of bed, but no one convinces Christophe DeLorne of anything. He also relied on a stick to keep standing, the end tip stuck in the ground, like it was a cane. His expression was unreadable. There was no attempt of comfort in his eyes, he just stared at me.

"I can start." Wendy said, clearing her throat, and I was immediately grateful for her initiative. She had those big empty eyes, her lips trembling, looking so haggard and exhausted. She certainly hadn't slept, or even dozed. The whole time, she was awake right next to Butters, or by the side of those who needed healing, or supplying any other needs. That's how she dealt with the pain. Annie was right behind her. Any familiar face that I found around Butters' grave was a small relief. Annie had a hand placed over Wendy's shoulder. For a few seconds, she said nothing. But her lips remained open, sucking the air with a low moan of sorrow, so low that it could have been a figment of my head. Finally, with her eyes to the ground, she continued. "He's... He was one of the bravest people I've ever met. People always underestimated him, but he was so much braver than most people will ever be."

They said he was tortured. A redheaded girl named Lexus was the one who found him. I only knew her as a friend of Butters, and always heard many jokes about how he had been in love with her since childhood and never had the balls to do anything about it. Maybe it was just the old habit that our friends had of making fun of him because Butters was skinny and shy, the girls liked him mostly as a cute little doll than anything else. Lexus had that kind of strong beauty, an air of dominatrix, always with showing her cleavage and wearing dark red lipstick. Well, except for now. Now she wore a large male shirt, way too big for her, and had no makeup on. Her hands covered her mouth the whole time and the tears wouldn't stop running; she had swollen small eyes, completely undone of that femme fatale composure. She just looked like a fragile young girl. She trembled so much.

What Lexus had told us was that the men in tortured him in broad daylight, in an alley. They pierced his eyes and demanded information, and when he said nothing, they threw him to the curb like trash, thinking he was on the verge of death and letting him suffer a little would be good for him. "_I thought they were gonna kill me_," Lexus told us that those were Butters' first words when she found him. Like he would be alright now. Like he could survive this, because she was there and he could go home and everything would be fine. She had told us that an hour before the funeral. Stan went to the bathroom to throw up, as quietly as he could, after hearing the story. I almost resented her for telling that to his friends, but somehow, I also felt like we needed to know.

Wendy was right. Butters was a lot braver than all of us. How many of that group wouldn't have given any of their companions' names in an attempt to break free? Who wouldn't have said whatever the fuck they wanted to hear just to make them stop? We all want to believe that we would be faithful to the death, but if they did to me what they had done to Butters... I couldn't tell what my answer would have been. At least at that time, when I still didn't know torture in the flesh.

"You could say anything to that moron and he always laughed." Cartman spoke next. "He never took offense on anything. He didn't pick a fight with anyone. Idiot."

As much as Cartman tried to hide it, he sniffled softly, wincing. He was holding his hat in his right hand, squeezing it between his fat fingers so hard to keep himself together.

"My day always got better after meeting him." Lexus said, and for the first time, there was some light in her face, her eyes. Remembering is a very powerful thing. She nearly smiled, forgetting for a second that she would never receive a compliment from Butters again.

"He would give someone the clothes off his back if he had nothing else to give." Stan spoke in a quiet voice, so tender. "I've never met such a selfless person. He wasn't a single drop of selfishness in his bones. He was so generous."

"And so reliable." Kenny whispered, so low that maybe only me and Stan could have heard. Then, in a bit stronger voice. "He'd give his life for the ones he loved."

And he did. Surely, I wasn't the only one thinking that.

"Butters was incapable of judging someone." I finally said, almost without thinking. I closed my eyes for a moment, and the flow of tears threatened to pour again, warming my face under the cold late autumn air. I tried to continue, but my voice failed, falling short and tight into a contained groan while I covered my eyes with my hands, lowering my head. Stan almost immediately wrapped his arms around my body, holding me against him. Kenny brought his hand down my arm and made stroked it affectionately. "He... He accepted every person exactly as they were. He was too good for this shit."

After long seconds of silence, a bird began to sing. It was beautiful, more like a mating song. The sound was shrill and short. During that time, it felt like no one would ever talk again. I turned sideways to lay my head on Stan's shoulder, keeping my eyes closed, my hand squeezing hard the fabric of his coat without realizing it. His heat was so familiar, so comforting. Almost a minute of silence was made without anyone asking for it.

Then I heard the familiar voice, the French accent. "His hair was very yellow. It was nice."

And without meaning to, I smiled. Kenny did too. We weren't the only ones, but I didn't want to raise my head from the comfort of Stan's warmth to find out who else let out a soft laugh while weeping.

After that, we buried our friend. Unlike the digging of the hole, the process of laying a body in the grave and throwing earth on it was a collective process. It took us about an hour to finish it.

Cartman, Stan, Kenny and I stayed until the end. But soon, the small crowd began to disperse. Some people went to eat, or sleep, or just get away from the cold. Others continued to hang around, strolling the grounds, chatting in small groups about what would be of the next day or the people they had lost.

I saw Christophe sitting on the grass in this small hill. I only peeked out of the corner of my eye, without looking directly at him. I could also hear Token arguing with him about the how fucking irresponsible it was of him to already be out of bed after the trauma his body had gone through. I found it kind of cute that Token still took the time to argue with him. He looked extremely worried. Trent was Christophe's side, but standing up. Christophe almost looked small beside that guy, especially since he was injured and shrunken like that. Anyway, Gregory also tried to convince him to go back to the room a few times, but Christophe just sat there in silence. I also wish he was indoors, lying down, resting. But I didn't speak to him, mostly because mourning Butters was all I could think about. I could feel his eyes on my back a few times as night fell, perhaps Stan felt it too.

Finally, my attention turned to something else. When we realized, Cartman had isolated himself from us. The grave wasn't yet completely filled with earth, but Butters' body was no longer visible. I felt a terrible tightness in my stomach to think of him down there, though I knew that corpse was no longer Butters. It was just flesh.

Kenny licked his lips, sending us a question look like he was asking '_what __should we __do_?' when he saw Cartman sitting too far away from the rest of us, with his back against a huge tree of thick trunk, almost completely dry. Kenny then made a sign of 'l_eave it to me_', but it didn't take long for Stan and I to follow behind him. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Cartman was not crying. The whole thing might be less worrying if he were at least showing some emotion, but he was just lethargic, sitting with his legs spread apart and the hands resting on his thighs, staring at the ground covered in dry leaves, his eyes so empty. The leaves were breaking under our feet when we came closer to sit beside him.

No one said anything for a few minutes. We only observed the flow of things. The distance was enough to give us a panoramic view of the burial. Clyde and Token were still throwing dirt on the grave; Clyde crying compulsively and Token telling him to just keep working. Craig was close to them, but he didn't take a shovel, not even once. He smoked. Suddenly, Cartman said. "Clyde wasn't even close friends with Butters, why the hell can't this fag stop crying? He's so fucking dramatic, always needs attention."

"I don't think this is about Butters." Kenny said before I had a chance to say exactly the same thing. "It's about Tweek."

"Hmm." Cartman said, but he didn't look pleased.

When we fall silent again, I looked up to see the forms that the branches made over our heads, so horrifyingly cool. It looked like several thick deformed arms trying to reach for something. The sun was almost completely set, but there was still enough natural light. When I straightened my neck, Stan was looking at me closely. He had his legs bent, tearing apart a leaf he had picked up from the ground, the back slightly crooked, his shoulders leaning forward. I put my hand on his leg.

"Look at Craig." Stan observed, as if talking to himself. "I'm worried about him."

"Yeah, this whole thing really fucked with his head, it seems." Kenny agreed, nodding. He had his legs crossed and his feet together, his worn shoes falling apart. He held his own heels, looking like a little boy. "It changed him."

"At Least Clyde cries, you know?" Stan said. "I think it's worse when you get apathetic like that."

I could see exactly what they were talking about. There was nothing absurdly peculiar about Craig's behavior, but something seemed… Off. It didn't feel like the kind of temporary change, because of the shock, something he would get used to and then he'd go back to normal. There was an emptiness inside his opaque eyes, an oddity in the way he acted, quieter than usual. Something in Craig had changed. But at the time, I didn't think it was anything serious. We were all deformed by everything we'd seen.

"I know that what I'm about to say is horrible, and I don't even wanna say it, but..." Kenny spoke, and our three heads turned in his direction. But his eyes were still focused on Clyde, Token and Craig. "What they must be going through right now... Man, I don't know what I would do. If it had been one of you guys, I don't... I don't know, I'd lose my shit."

What Kenny was trying to say, but couldn't, not after burying a friend and not being able to bury so many others, was: "_I'm glad it was__n't one __of you_." This became very clear by the guilt he carried in his eyes for even thinking about something like that. The worst part is that I understood what he was saying. It's not about giving more value to one life than another, but it's different when something happens to one of your people. Especially now that we didn't know when or if we would be able to see our families again, our parents, our brothers and sisters. Thinking of Ike made my eyes started burning again, but I didn't cry anymore. Now, I had a strange taste of relief after a cry that had been stuck. I was able to breathe better.

Then I noticed Stan's hand covering mine.

"It is a bit horrible, yeah." Stan said, but the corners of his lips almost raised. Subtly, of course. It was hardly a smile. Taking a deep breath, he continued. "I'm so relieved you're all here." He added softly, watching the dry leaves beneath us, the carpet of leaves that stretched for miles and covered the damp earth.

Cartman crossed his arms and bit his lower lip thoughtfully. I watched him for a few seconds, remembering the night before, the things he told me when he thought Kenny wouldn't return. I also didn't think he'd come back. I kept staring at Kenny just to make sure he was really alive and well. On the other hand, the fears of the night before felt so far away. It was the longest night of my life, but still, it felt like it had been so long ago.

"How can you think that we wouldn't jump off a van for you?" I asked, looking directly at Cartman.

He didn't understand my question, just like Stan and Kenny didn't either. The three of them looked at me, frowning, their faces slightly aside, a questioning look on each of them. But soon, Cartman's doubt fell away, and he lifted his chin, pressing his tongue inside his cheek. He had been too drunk the night before, but certainly remembered our brief conversation.

"You treat us like shit most of the time and no one said we _like_ you." I continued, and Stan raised his eyebrows with that expression that always said '_wow__, Kyle, __easy there_', but nothing came out of his lips. Cartman was still staring at me, his face like a white wall, unattainable. "But you're family. Any of us would jump off a moving van for you, asshole."

"Wait, what?" Kenny asked, confused, but understanding that it had something to do with the fact that he went back to look for us that day, giving up on his own safety.

"I think your question shouldn't be whether or not we would jump off a van for you. Your question is if you would do the same for us."

"You think I wasn't looking for you dickheads?! But I had a job to do. I had to bring as many assholes as I could over here. I went back to look for you and that dirty French, didn't I?! I risked my ass to find you."

He should be very hurting a whole fucking lot with the loss of Butters to make such an honest statement, without trying to disguise the concern with rudeness. Well, maybe he did it a little bit, but within Cartman's limitations, it warmed my heart. In other circumstances, it would have made me want to smile. But on that day, it didn't. I just nodded slowly, relaxing my shoulders.

"I'm just saying that loyalty has never been as important as now. No one can survive this alone." I concluded, and that seemed to end the conversation.

And to be there with my three best friends from childhood, watching over Butters as he should also have been watching over us from some other place... It was comforting.

Being alone is perhaps the most frightening thing in the world. And at that moment, we weren't. No matter what.

After a few seconds, Kenny and Cartman started talking about something else. Stan let go of my hand, stretched and lay on the ground, his head resting on my thigh. I stroked his hair with a light touch for a while, before realizing something was happening near the house.

Christophe said something to Gregory, something that sounded _very rude_ from where I could see. But I couldn't hear them from that distance. Gregory probably said something about how he shouldn't be walking around by himself in his condition, holding the stick he should be using, offering it to him. Christophe told him to stick it up his ass, that much I could understand very well. I didn't have to hear the words to know. So, Christophe began to march to the house on a much more rigorous walk than he seemed to realize, at a speed that could rip off the stitches in his stomach. Gregory didn't do anything about it. He had PHD in Christophe DeLorne, enough to know when not to push his limits. I didn't.

"Hey, I'll be right back." I told Stan, and he lifted his head so I could get up. He saw the direction I was heading to (three of them did), but didn't say anything about it.

As I approached, Trent tried to hold Christophe's arm to help him walk, but Christophe pushed him with disgust, telling him to fuck off in French. You don't need to speak the language to know when someone is saying that. Instinctively, I realized that Trent had no intention to insist on helping, so I followed Christophe. For a man who had just been shot, he was still extraordinarily fast. I tried to call his name, but he kept trotting like a wounded horse, pretending not to listen to me. Or openly ignoring me. And I was very aware of what it meant, I'd have to be stupid not to know: he wanted to be alone, or at least he didn't want to talk to me specifically. But that was no longer important when he put his weakened body at risk. Trent was able to respect this decision, but I wasn't. God, I was stupid back then. Or maybe I just loved him too damn much to leave him alone.

He walked dipping his feet in the mud puddles without a care, making a straight path to the house's back door. I tried to dodge the puddles, but when the distance between us began to grow - because I didn't want to literally chase him - I stopped caring about my fucking shoes that were already filthy as fuck and the hem of those pants that weren't even mine. When we entered the house, Christophe was still a few feet in front of me. I called his name more emphatically, almost aggressive, breathing erratically. The four walls surrounding us made the sound of my voice much stronger. The echo reverberating in the kitchen tiles almost hurt my ears, but he was already entering the living room. I didn't want to talk to him like a grown up fighting with a child, but to see him trotting like that scared the shit out of me. Until the day before, I was so sure I'd lose him. And now he was standing there, so pale, so shaky, with dark circles, looking in so much pain. And yet, still moving so abruptly. I was afraid that he'd passed out and I couldn't handle it. We were now alone.

"Jesus fuck, Christophe! Stop!"

"What?!" He shouted, turning toward me. I hadn't expected him to stop walking so suddenly. For a moment, I didn't even know what to say.

"At least… Just let me help you." I asked earnestly, reaching out to touch his arm, finally close enough to do it.

But his immediate response was to shrink like an erratic beast, pushing my hand away like it was going to hurt him, apparently using all the strength he had left. Only then I realized just how physically weak he was. In his normal conditions, if he pushed me with such anger, I would have wobbled back.

"Don't fucking touch me." He whispered hoarsely, but full of hatred.

At any other time, maybe I would have been afraid of him. Christophe was usually intimidating, but when there was this angry glow in his eyes, it was so much worse. I had never been the one to get this kind of look from him before. I had seen him with so much hatred in his expression on the day we were cornered by those two men in white who Tweek had shot, and even in that situation, Christophe seemed much calmer. This one was more personal. Being the reason of his disturbance made my knees go weak, and not in that delicious way it used to be with him.

But I wasn't afraid. Not with him so shrunken, so hurt, with no color in the face, covered in cold sweat. He barely had the strength to push my hand away, he had been gelded of that physical force that used to intimidate any sane person. And it was fucking painful to see him that way. Looking back, I see that this moment was when my relationship with Christophe began to change. Ever since I had met him, from that first exchange of glances in the cafeteria, what fascinated me about Christophe DeLorne was his strength. It seemed like that being was almost non-human, so wild and tough, but above all, indestructible. The day before, I discovered that he wasn't. Well, I rationally knew that anyone could die if they were shot in the belly, but he was different. Through my eyes, he was different. Because he was not afraid when someone pointed a gun at him. And because he never, ever missed a shot. Because he had such a hard shell that protected him from the world and, at least for a few months, insistently, I felt that he had let me into his shell. At least a little bit.

At that moment, I began to take down the image of this idealized man, The Mole, The Strong, The Guerrilla. I believe I had loved him for a long time, but didn't know it fully back then. Taking down this ideal was the first step towards this, perhaps, to know him and to love him in his peculiar way. I stopped desiring the fantasy to see, actually_ see_ him as the flawed man made of flesh and bone that he was, in all his weaknesses. You can only love a person after you've seen the ugliest in them, or at least that's what I believed. But with Christophe, I rediscover this "ugliest" several times. Every time I thought I had seen all his facets, he surprised me.

Well, I don't even consider this an ugly aspect, this glittering anger within his irises. On the contrary, it's so beautiful to see him overflowing genuine hurt like any other person, to see him allowing himself to show feelings. To show that he was hurt.

Hurt.

And I was responsible for it. I somehow unwittingly crawled under his thick skin and hurt him more dishonestly than sappers and blades were able to do. It disturbed me to realize that.

When he entered the room, I stopped at the door. It was as if the area was prohibited, too intimate to be invaded. The room was stuffy, the curtains closed. The mattress where we had laid together a few hours before was still there, with a rolled blanket and a pillow out of place, looking strangely warm in this dark room. The lamp on the floor was off, of course. My eyes scanned the mattress while Christophe walked through the room limping, getting to the opposite wall. It was as if he felt the need to be as far away from me as possible. I knew it was selfish to feel that tightness in my chest for thinking that he wouldn't hold me like that again, not anytime soon. But it saddened me so fucking much. It shouldn't. That was my choice.

So I swallowed any possible feeling that could try to overflow inside me and I was there, standing, respecting his limits. Or maybe it was just cowardice on my part.

"Christophe..." I called softly, touching the door frame.

"You know." He said suddenly, to my surprise. He turned around to look at me with his blunt way, the movements limited by the extension of that wound in the abdomen. His feet gave in, or perhaps it was lack of leg strength to support his own weight. He had to lean on the wall, his back slightly curved, heavy breathing. "I don't know if you're so used to Stan's blindness or what, but I see shit exactly as it is. So you can get the fuck out of my room, I get it. Don't say anything."

"Please..." I asked, not even understanding what I was asking of him. And I didn't have that right. I could have sworn that my cheeks were burning with shame. "Let's not get into this now. We just buried a friend... Christophe, you should be in bed, it's too early for you to be walking." I could hear the fear in my own voice.

He leaned his forehead against the wall as he heard my voice, and I thought the two were related, that my voice was mistreating him almost physically, but no. When he knelt down, wrapping his arm around the stomach area, I understood that his physical pain, literally physical, must have been unbearable. It was so hard to see the expression on his face, his entire face was frowning, writhing, looking vulnerable to the pain. He growled. Respecting any barrier became unimportant; I just stepped into the room without thinking and ran up to him, reaching out to touch him on the shoulder. When I knelt beside him, Christophe put both hands on the dirty floor and leaned forward, spewing only liquid. It looked more like stomach acid and water, as if he had nothing in his stomach to put out. My heart was pounding in my throat as I looked for some sign of bleeding in his abdomen, the area where the bullet had entered. It was hard to see anything with him bent over that way and under the low light. Christophe snarled again, sucking air through the mouth before throwing up again. Vomit spread across the wooden floor, splattered on my leg, but I didn't realize it nor would I have given a shit at the time. Tears flowed from his eyes and nose, but it wasn't from crying, it was the burning feeling of vomiting. At least so it seemed.

"Shh. It's all right." I whispered, stroking his back. For a solid minute, he held my wrist as if he would die if he let go of me. Anger, pride, sorrow, all this was diluted until he had poured out everything that his body was rejecting. "Let's put you on the mattress. Can we do that?"

Christophe would never admit it, but I felt it in his body that he was relieved to have someone with him at that moment. That was precisely why I followed him, to be with him at the moment he fell apart and his body couldn't take it anymore. It was a matter of time, given the way he had pushed his violated body. Instinctively, I used my own palm to clean the rest of vomit trickling from his mouth. He tried to pull away with a short move, turning his head to the other side. He seemed groggy, it wasn't even violent. He didn't even have the strength to be at that point.

Dealing with Christophe was very similar to dealing with a wild animal sometimes. I don't say that pejoratively, quite the contrary. It's the subtlety of movement, their ability to smell fear in someone and build trust with those who knew how to, calmly and without forcing anything, offer some kind of comfort, not pulling away when they tried to bite. I may have crossed the line by cleaning up his vomit with my hand, but despite the setback, he seemed to relax then.

It's funny. Vomit was always one of the things that truly bothered me, but not now. I didn't feel sick, nor reluctant to touch it, the smell didn't make me want to throw up. Nothing. Because none of this was more important than holding him.

When I tried to get him up, as gently as I could, he didn't move. Christophe just kept his head down, hands on the floor, his breath uneasy.

"Are you bleeding?" I asked in a small voice, trying not to sound scared.

He did not answer me.

We may have spent at least ten minutes in silent, Christophe trying to gradually recover and I was just there with him, ensuring that he wasn't alone without having to say a word.

"Kyle." He murmured softly, turning his face to look at me, but his hair was already long enough to fall over his eyes. All I could see were those eyes, brighter than usual, almost yellowish, tired and dull, staring at me closely. "_Please_. Leave me alone."

There was a hint of pleading in his weak voice. It wasn't an order, an easily ignorable coarse bark. He was _asking _me. A request, looking into my eyes, so close to me, coming from a man who could barely stand up alone. But there was no response to that request. There was no way to deny it, to impose my presence more than I already had. Because for such a proud man like him to ask, so quietly, that I gave him the necessary space to breathe... Maybe only then I could really feel the weight of what I had done to him.

The last thing I wanted was to get up and leave him alone, sitting on his own vomit, unable to get to the mattress. But it was what he wanted. I could see it in his eyes, for the first time he looked me straight: having me there close to him was much worse than the physical pain. The humiliation was worse.

I couldn't be the person he called for when he woke up scared from a nightmare or just a horrible feeling. It couldn't be me holding him by the arm, helping him, I could no longer be his companion, his friend, we could no longer be intimate. Because now, we were something else. And I didn't know what that was. I did know that it fucking hurt. Not only him, it also hurt me too fucking bad to realize that, if we were to live in the same house and not be able to touch, we couldn't even be... Friends? Were we ever friends at some point? I couldn't tell.

No, I think we've always been something else. Something else that none of us had the opportunity to fully understand, and now it was over, because I chose Stan. I didn't have to say it out loud, he knew. Christophe knew before even I did. I didn't realize I was making my choice while I gravitated towards Stan because that was where I belonged, that's the only place I could be, he was my home. My family. I didn't know how to exist without him. I knew what we were. I was sure of it.

I removed my hand from his shoulder and slowly stood up, rubbing my palm on the side of my thigh over the fabric of my pants. I felt my eyes tearing rehearsing when I looked at him one last time, my heart beating so tight in my chest that it could very well explode. I didn't allow myself to cry because that was not my right.

"I get it." I spoke softly. "I'm sorry."

I didn't know if I was asking for forgiveness for imposing myself on him, for forcing him or simply for not being his. For _not being able_ to be his. He did not respond.

I left the room and went to get Gregory. He was the right person to collect Christophe from the ground, he'd always been.


	22. The Forgiveness I

November 15, 3644

Stan sat on the bed, legs together and hands positioned on the sides of his thighs, his head lolling forward, his shoulders tense. Suddenly, as if to contradict my observation, he joined hands and entwined his fingers. One of his feet tapped the ground compulsively, revealing some anxiety. It was just the two of us in the room, thankfully. The only light came from this light bulb hanging from the ceiling, making everything look orange; I think our room was one of the few ones where the ceiling light was still working. We shared the space with Cartman and Kenny, which seemed to me to be the best scenario in that situation, as we had shared the same living space for a long time, even though we had never actually lived together, not exactly. Kenny and Cartman were always in our apartment, which I remembered with sinking heart. Well, I was already used to their mess. It was better than the mess of strangers, at least.

I hadn't been able to fully absorb the idea that we were never going back to that apartment, that all of our things would be left behind. I mean, not all, there were talks about returning to seek what was more important, perhaps even saying goodbye to those who mattered. I'd heard Gregory and that girl Nichole talking about how long we could stay hidden in that house, and by her tone, it wouldn't be much. There were plans of leaving South Park, but that was mostly speculation still. No one said anything concrete. When questioned, Gregory said '_we have to wait __for __our wounded __to __heal_.' And by "our wounded," he meant Christophe, that's for sure. There were injured people, but no one else was in such a bad shape that they couldn't travel.

Anyway, no one was making fuss about it because it was still too early. We were all a bit anesthetized.

Revolutions aside, Kenny and Cartman weren't in the room with us. They were downstairs having dinner or doing whatever else. Stan and I finally found a moment alone to talk, which I did not expect to happen so soon and still didn't feel prepared for this conversation. But I wasn't nervous, not exactly. I thought I would be. I thought I would be afraid, but the fear never came. I think the perspective of what "scary" meant had changed.

I didn't want to be the first one to speak, especially because I was unsure of what could come out of my mouth. There was so much to be said, but I couldn't smother him with everything I felt, not after making light of his insecurities and denying the obvious in all of our other conversations about it. I felt so ashamed. Like my only obligation was to keep quiet and let him pour out whatever he wanted on me. This, of course, would be the coward's way out.

"You know..." He finally began to speak and his voice froze my body for a few seconds. Because he didn't say anything immediately, he was still thinking, that was clear by his slightly open mouth. He didn't look at me; he kept his focus on the wooden wall. "That night when the Mole was in that room and Token was trying to save his life, I saw... I saw this look on your face. I saw the face of someone who was about to lose the person they love." Finally, he turned to face me. "Is that it?"

How was I supposed to answer that?

Stan was frowning in a way that made his face looked like that of a wounded dog, growling at anyone who tries to help, but his eyes begging for affection. He looked so fragile and so strong at the same time.

I crossed my arms as if by instinct to protect my body from something, rubbing them with my warm hands. Suddenly I felt cold. We stared at each other for at least five seconds, but I was the first to break eye contact because I couldn't bear to face the waiting in his eyes. I slowly walked to the window as if that could extend time.

What he was asking me was "_do __you love him?_" And I had promised myself that I would only tell him the truth, all the truth that I could. For this, I couldn't say neither yes nor no. I didn't understand it. How could I explain something that even I couldn't understand? A strange thing that consumed my insides, that suffocating desire I had for Christophe and, at the same time, when put next to my relationship of a lifetime with Stan, it didn't seem so strong? But it was. But it wasn't.

Impatient, Stan continued. "I thought it was just lust. You... Damn, Kyle, I thought you were just attracted to him and I've spent months trying to ignore it, trying to understand it. You and I, we fell in love too young, we were just kids when we started dating, I was trying to convince myself that this was natural. That it couldn't hurt, you just flirted with him because you never had the chance to have other experiences with someone else. Do you have any idea what a jerk I felt like? And you_let _me. You made me feel possessive, irrational, controlling, but you _kn__e__w_. You knew it wasn't in my fucking head."

He stood up, his lips seemed prepared to keep talking, making it very clear that he was not finished. But he paused for a moment, his face looked immersed in a memory. Or plenty of them. He was probably remembering all the times that I told him it was nothing, that I had no feelings for Christophe.

I just waited. Stan rubbed his neck, closed his eyes for a moment. I could see that not even he had been expecting to feel so angry to touch this subject. He, like me, should think that everything was already worn out. What a mistake. And so he went on. "I really thought you were only justifying his shit because you admired him, because you wanted him to like you. But deep down, I knew it too. I didn't want to believe it, but I knew. I guess I was only sure when I saw you like that, like..." Stan looked at his own hands while talking in the lowest voice. "Like if he died, you'd die too." And finally, staring at me again. "You fell in love with him, didn't you?"

For a moment, I thought I'd throw up. But I didn't. I didn't even averted my gaze from him. I continued to stare back with a stern expression, my eyes probably harder than I would like, on defensive. My heart pounding inside my ribs. Stan didn't wait five seconds of silence before rising sharply and shouting, much more aggressive than I'd ever seen him, coming very close to me. "Fucking tell me!"

He never screamed. Not at me. His voice, which always sounded so gentle, now echoed so hard through the flimsy walls that I could swear the room had shuddered. It was probably more because of his heavy footsteps on the ground than the cry itself, but even so, I instinctively cringed and turned my face to the side, squinting, cornered against the wall. My throat was too dry.

I let a silent gap come between us, very brief, but significant, before answering. First, I raised my head and faced him, opening my chest, feeling bigger than I really was. "What do you want me to say that I want him? That he gets to me? Is that what you need to hear?"

Stan already tried to get away from me, but he suddenly turned around, pointing his index finger at my face to say, "I need to hear the fucking truth."

I didn't expect him to stop walking, then our bodies almost collide as I followed him. It was subtle, but any physical contact now was unimaginable. He looked so upset that he didn't even know exactly where he wanted to go in that tiny room.

"Yes, Stan, I have feelings for him. I do." I spoke with the firmest voice I could, while Stan gave me his back. Over impulse I walked right behind him so that we didn't get too far away from each other. We did this little dance of contraction and expansion in the small space we had. He almost tripped over the thin mattress thrown on the floor, the one that Kenny slept in, as Cartman had taken possession of the other bed. He stopped walking again, turning aside, one hand on his hip, his eyes on the floor as he listened to me. "I feel a lot of shit that confuses me, I can't even breathe when I'm around him! That's not romantic, Stan, that's... Something else. Obviously I was destroyed that night, Tweek had died right in front of me and I couldn't do shit to help him, I was... I had the Mole bleeding in my arms for fucking hours. You have no idea, the things that went through my mind... You can't use that day as an example, measuring my feelings over how depressed I was when I thought he was dying, that's inhuman."

"No. No, no, don't even start it." He took two steps back, finger pointing again, his arm stretched as if to establish a necessary distance between us. "Don't you fucking call me insensitive, I'm perfectly aware of everything that happened. I'm not taking away your right to feel like that, so much that I was by your side the whole fucking night and I gave him my blood as I would have done for anyone else. But you know very well that if it were only for Tweek, you wouldn't have gone into that catatonic state. What's insensitive is that you'd dare to mention his name to justify something that is obvious. You love that guy."

"Maybe! Maybe I do!" I screamed. I had no idea why, I couldn't find any another way to express myself at that moment. "But you know what? If I wanted to be with him right now, I would. If it was the way you think it is..." My voice cracked. I looked down and I realized that my hands were shaking. I watched them for a while, then took the palms to the fabric of my shirt and squeezed it hard, trying to breath. I no longer felt like screaming. "Stan... I know it hurts you. A lot. It… It kills me that I've this to you. I have no idea what I would do in your place, I'd probably have ended it a long time ago. And if that's what you want..."

He frowned and then scratched his forehead, alternating his gaze between my face and something that was behind me, wavering. He gulped, his blue eyes glinting in something that looked very much like fear. Fear of what he had to say maybe. "Did you fuck him?" He asked softly, hoarsely, clearing his throat.

I really had this strong desire to reach for something heavy or a sharp object to throw at him. That was my first impulse, breathing restlessly and looking around; not that I literally was going to do it, but it was a good thing that we were in such an empty room at the time. After two seconds, my restlessness settled. Because, truth be told, it wasn't the most absurd question in the world. I remembered that evening training before the President's birthday, the day that we were training alone and... I closed my eyes, remembering the feel of Christophe's large, warm hands, the punch he gave me and the way he had touched me afterward. How Stan and I had sex that night, after I returned home. And it filled me with guilt. For the first time, I felt like crying. Stan noticed immediately the change in my posture.

Taking a deep breath, looking so deeply into his eyes, taking a step forward, I said, "No." And my voice came out strong, much more than before. "I did not fuck him. I did not kiss him. Nothing happened."

"But you wanted to."

"I've thought about it, yes." I replied without hesitation.

"With me?"

"What?"

"Have you thought about it while you were with me? While we were fucking, have you ever thought about it?"

I had no immediate reaction to that. I only offered him a puzzled look, trying to understand if he was really asking what I thought he was asking. I frowned in response when he remained serious, expectantly, unblinking.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"That means yes."

"No, Stan. _Yes_ means yes. This means: why are you being so gross right now? Did I hurt you that much?" The anger was dissipating my voice before I could realize it, giving rise to a strange sorrow that I didn't feel in the right to have.

"Do you want an honest answer? Yeah! We always had our problems, Kyle, but I've never wanted to hurt you like I do now."

I felt weak. I took my hands to my temples and closed my eyes for a few seconds, sliding my hands up through my hair and grabbing the locks tightly, as if the physical pain was able to relieve what was happening inside me. I dragged my feet to the bed and sat down with all my weight, breathing easier now that I didn't have to support my own body anymore. My hands fell between my own thighs, also dead. I didn't dare look at him in the next moment. He was still standing, arms folded, closed expression. Such seriousness did not match his face.

I tried to start talking without losing control of my own voice, but it did not seem possible. My eyes were burning now, the tears already flowing down without asking for permission. This didn't softened Stan's face one bit. I wasn't expecting that my crying would touch him. I really wasn't.

"I would give anything..." I closed my eyes, sniffling. "For you to understand. For you to understand how little sense it makes that you ask me these things, because it has nothing to do with sex." Finally, I separated my eyelids and stared at him with all my barriers torn down, with my flesh and soul fully exposed. I wonder if it would have been different if I was in a relationship with someone who didn't know me for a lifetime like Stan did. Lying to him was unsustainable. "He touched things inside me, Stan... He... Made me find these holes in me, this dark side, I had no idea that it even existed..." I crossed hands in front of my body and slid them over my chest, reaching my clavicles, pressing the tips of my fingers over my own skin, trying to remember how to breathe. "I can't explain it. Maybe because there is no explanation."

"Try it." He said, curtly, leaning up against the wall, keeping the distance between us.

"Stan, If I had known him in another world, a better world than this one... If we weren't in the middle of a civil war, I probably wouldn't even like him as a person."

"Yeah, but you didn't know him in a better world. And you're right, I'll never be able to understand this shit that happens between you and that guy." He took a short break to sigh, pulling his back away from the wall to take a few steps around the room. "I just can't shake away this feeling that you wouldn't have hidden this from me if it didn't mean something."

I nodded without knowing why, hiding my face in my palms. I didn't spend much time in that position, but as soon as I raised my head, Stan was pretty close to me. Not close enough that we would touch, but close.

"I'm so sorry." It was all I could mumble, with a small and tearful voice.

"Kyle..."

"Stan, the only thing I'm sure of is that I can't do this without you." I raised my wet eyes to look at him, using the sleeve of my sweatshirt to dry them, making it possible to control that damn waterfall that didn't want to stop running from my eyes for the last three days. I had been crying more over those 72 hours than in my entire lifetime, probably. He unfolded his arms and looked back at me, a gentle glow taking over his eyes, even though his expression remained rigid. "You're my only certainty. I should have... I was so afraid of losing you, I still am, so I tried to pretend that there was nothing going on."

"Yeah, that was a mistake."

I had to smile for the honest and objective way he summed that up. I waited for a shy smile to show on his lips, but I wasn't so lucky. I licked my lips and held out my hand to him.

After studying it a bit, Stan reached out and grabbed it.

"Whatever there was before is over now." I spoke softly. He looked up at me for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the ground. His hand was warm against mine. "Nothing has ever happened. Do you believe me?"

With two seconds of hesitation, Stan nodded.

"I think it'll work now." I heard Kenny say, but his voice was drowned out by the barrier of the television; he was behind is fiddling with wires, trying to get it to turn on. The television set was some old model of thin screen, I remembered a model just like it in my grandmother's house, a little bigger than this one was. Most television models were built directly on the wall to save space, with a minimum thickness only to the screen, but you'd only have it in your house if you had a lot of money. "Try to turn it on now."

The television industry for entertainment was something almost extinct in our time. The TV basically existed for the transmission of movies, it was no longer such a lucrative industry, but it still remained because this type of luxury was expensive and served a specific portion of the population. Token had kept this TV in the attic of the house we were staying at. He explained to us later that he had inherited the house from his grandmother. Knowing that Token's parents were aware of the house's location made me ill, a silent concern took over all of us. But Token also made it clear that his parents would never ever step foot in there. The house had been closed for seven years and it was just another property for the Black family. They were also very sure that their son was studying in Switzerland, and not traveling around the Republic learning how to treat the rebels' injuries. This also resulted in his parents depositing absurd amounts of money in his account to support him, money that financed our food, medicines, even the clothes he had given us.

I thought it to be sweetly ironic, knowing that a millionaire couple of lawyers defending the worst kind of political class were, unknowingly, helping to finance a resistance movement.

But anyway.

There was a large amount of people in the living room, a constant buzz of small groups talking eagerly. Stan asked me what the time was, but I also didn't have a watch on me. I leaned forward to ask a girl with curly hair sitting in front of us and she told us that there were seven minutes left. Seven minutes to 8 pm, the time scheduled for the pronouncement to start. I would like to say I wasn't nervous, but the truth was that my stomach was turning around inside and I was so sure I would have nervous diarrhea later.

We were sitting on the floor, very close to the TV. I hugged my own knees, wiggling my toes inside the socks, shivering with cold. Stan was sitting behind me, legs crossed, playing with the drawstring of his sweatpants. Gregory was standing next to us, arms folded, talking to that girl Nichole.

Wendy pressed the red button on the remote control and, finally, the TV screen brightened up, which got a lot of cheerful sounds of those who were waiting apprehensively. Then it began the drama with the antenna to connect the one single open channel that existed, the government channel.

Although there are no TVs in most people's houses, any public place you visited had one or more screens exposed for any statement or government propaganda to strengthen the image of Country's Savior. It was a fucking joke, really.

Kenny moved the antenna around on the TV without being able to see the screen, but the shriek was strong enough for him to know that the image wasn't visible.

While we waited, I began to look around. There were many unfamiliar faces there. Soon, I saw Cartman sitting alone closer to the wall, eating a banana. I don't know why, but it made me smile a little. The smile that was born unwillingly and died very quickly on my face. Unfortunately, with the keen weasel senses he had, Cartman immediately turned his eyes to me. It was more than a second of eye contact, Cartman with that banana in his mouth and the pissed off expression he always had, but it felt like an eternity. I rubbed my tired face with both hands and let my eyes stray to the side. Well, that was awkward.

And not far from Cartman, there was Christophe. He sat on the floor, his back against the wall, bent legs apart, arms resting on his knees. His eyes were closed, his face slightly turned up.

I tried to swallow some of the saliva there was in my mouth, but I couldn't. It was completely dry. Like I had seen something profane, I looked back at the TV. The screen images danced, forming completely illegible letters, and the hissing sound continued.

A familiar blond boy approached us and sat beside Stan; Stan smiled at him, then turned to me and said, "Kyle, have you met Pip?"

Pip reached out, to my surprise, offering me a warm smile that reminded me Butters.

"Nice to meet you, Kyle! My name is Philip, but please call me Pip." The boy spoke in a very strong British accent; he looked so young that my heart hurt to find him amid such a sad context.

I shook his hand and outlined a subtle smile, almost invisible. I didn't want to smile, but that boy had such a warm look that I forced myself to. "Nice to meet you, Pip."

"I'm very glad you're safe. Stan was very worried before you returned."

There was something a little odd about that boy. I replied with a small nod because I didn't really feel like talking to him, but it wasn't that child's fault. Pip seemed to have the kind of sweet innocence that wasn't seen in the adults, and this led him to say and do inappropriate things. Maybe I was already building huge walls around me and human contact me already felt like something strange and distant, of a world that no longer existed, a past life.

"Stop, Kenny, it's done! Don't touch anything!" Wendy said, which made almost all eyes roll to the TV screen.

The image that had been distorted before had now become clear enough to identify the blue screen with a countdown proceeding every important pronouncement of any kind. Generally, it was a sound that didn't refer to good things. In this case, the colors was blue because that was a State pronouncement. The name stamped on the screen, in bold letters, was "SHEILA BROFLOVSKI". I could feel Pip's eyes on me, staring with pity and curiosity. He probably wasn't the only one. But I didn't bother to look around, didn't take my eyes off the television. My jaw was tense because of how hard I pressed my teeth together, almost gritting them.

Kenny came out from behind the television and sat near us, reaching out to stroke my leg in a gesture of comfort, smiling at me. It was very clear that this was not a smile of joy, but full of melancholy. He disguised it well. There was a '_are you okay_?' implied in his eyes, but he didn't ask it out loud.

My heart froze in my chest when the round and familiar face of my mother appeared. All the colors were distorted, the TV image made it look like her skin was very yellow. Her red hair was meticulously stuck in a bun on top of her head, showing her features very well. She stared at the camera with rancorous eyes for an eternity, puckering her lips. There were dark circles marking her skin.

"_My dear people of Colorado. Today is __still __a day of mourning. But __the day before__ yesterday was violated by evil forces, a day that should have been about celebrati__ng__ the birth of such a great man. __A__ holy day_." The small picture of my mother on the screen put her hand on her chest, on the frills of the white blouse she wore underneath a black blazer. Maybe it was navy blue, the colors of the TV made everything darker. Her other hand strongly gripped the edge of the podium. _"For those who do__n'__t know... My son, the sweet boy __I've raised__ with all my love, wh__om__ I'__ve__ g__iven__ everything I had __to__... He __has __betrayed our great nation_."

As she said this, her image was suddenly even smaller in a little square in the upper right corner. The full screen had been replaced by the image of a swinging camera, as if the cameraman was running with it, a trembling and irregular picture, but focused enough so we could see what was happening. Way too focused, actually. It revealed chaos in the street, people running, a specific zoom on my face. As I screamed. There was no audio on the footage, but it wasn't necessary to know what I was yelling: "_Tweek_". Of course, the scene did not show Tweek being trampled, but it was reflected in the terror of my eyes, in my face deformed by the screaming and the cry of despair. When Christophe grabbed me from behind, the image was cut. They didn't show his face, only a thick arm wrapped around my body.

"They filmed?!" I heard someone ask in the dead silence of the room.

"Of course. The place was full of reporters." Someone else answered. Those voices seemed so distant.

My hands started to shake. I tightly clenched a fist and took a deep breath, trying to remind my own brain that we were no longer in the midst of chaos, we were safe now, but there was something in me… Some kind of imprint that didn't allow me to believe it. Then Stan unexpectedly grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly until it stopped shaking.

My eyes locked with my mother's through the screen. I was taken by the strangest feeling that I didn't know the features of this woman, as if that hadn't been one of the first and most important faces in my life.

"_I accept full responsibility for it. It's my fault. At some point... Maybe __for__ taking too much time serving our great nation and not enough time looking __out __for my own family._" She closed her eyes and took a deep, exaggerated sigh. "_Let this be a lesson, __so we can become stronger__ in this dark period of our history. We realize how fragile our youth __is__, __how desperately__ our young people need us, our guidi__ng__ light __to get through such__ dark path._"

"Wow." I heard Gregory's voice behind me. As I turned toward the sound, he was much closer to us, standing with his arms crossed. When he felt my gaze on him, he turned to me and raised his eyebrows. "She's good."

I nodded and went back to watching the transmission.

"_There's something very __private__ about my life that I would like to share with each of you, my people of Colorado_." There was a vulnerability in her voice that made my stomach ache. I could already see where she was going with that. "_Three__ years __ago__ I __went through__ the worst thing a mother can __experience.__ The absolut__e worst__. My dear younger boy, Ike Broflovski, died in a tragic accident while playing on __the__ ice. He was only twelve. Ike was welcomed by our family when __he__ was just a baby, and __the__short __twelve __years__ I had with him were the__ happiest__ of my life. I've never been the same after the accident._"

"This fucking bitch." I whispered so low that even Stan couldn't hear it.

Every word, every pause of hers had been meticulously calculated. Of course it would be of human nature to experience compassion for a mother talking about her dead son. Any mother. But knowing that Ike was perfectly alive and well in the basement of our house, and yet I could see the truth in her eyes as she lied, the reflection of real tears, as if she was really aware of the pain of losing a child... It made me want to vomit.

"_Today, on this sad morning,__ I woke up thinking __of__ my two boys when they were __little__, __of how they__ play__ed__ together in our backyard, carefree and protected from all things. It seems like yesterday, but it __also__ seems __like this happened __thousands of years ago_." She closed her eyes to emphasize her nostalgia, then sighed and changed her stance, masking that glance of fragility to demonstrate the strong woman she was. All very well thought out, of course. "_It was a simpler time, a time when our values were__n't__ totally corrupted. But __it's important to know how to lo__ok forward. __It's important that__the__ faith of each one of us is very well stated. Because the day before yesterday, I had to __go, once__ again, __through__ the worst thing a mother can __experience__. Not only __have I lost__ my __youngest__ son to a tragic accident, __I've __also lost the one… __The __only living son __I had__, but it was__n'__t death __that took him from me__. I'm not sure if Kyle is alive __or not__, there is no evidence that he died in the incident. But it does__n'__t matter. Because today, I'm __no longer his mother_."

I kept waiting for the pain to come. My father's face came to my mind, as he kissed my forehead when he tucked me in bed and always left a crack on the door and the hallway's light on. I thought a lot about my father. I thought a lot about Ike, how hard it was to see him locked in that basement in the first year without understanding what he had done wrong, other than being Canadian. And yes, thinking about these things thrilled me, scared me, caused me a strange feeling of absence, longing and fear. But the pain I was expecting was much more acute, and perfectly justifiable. The pain of having my own mother throw me to the wolves like that; something I always knew it would happen, and always prepared for it. I didn't expect to have to do so through a fucking televised pronouncement, but still. I couldn't understand my own apathy. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to break anything. It was weird.

Maybe it was because I was already prepared to lose her, to lose my family and everything that made me Kyle Broflovski. Or maybe I just didn't love her anymore and her rejection didn't touch me one bit. Her love was suffocating. Maybe I didn't even want it.

Anyway, whatever it was, my chest was empty. That didn't changed when my mother - or the woman who raised me - looked straight into the camera and grabbed on the podium so tightly that her fingers were red. His feral eyes seemed to look at me for real. She knew I was watching.

"_Kyle. I do__n'__t know if you __can __hear me, but if __you are,__ listen to me carefully. You __can __no longer __count on__ me. My home is no longer __yours__. __Seeing the person you've become breaks my heart into a million pieces because I nourished. Everything you are, everything you have, I've given to you. But still, I failed you._ "

I could feel some heads turning towards me and some weak whispers filling the air. Most of them just wanted to spy, perhaps with some morbid curiosity, expecting me to lose my shit. They thought they'd see tears, maybe. But I let them all down; I felt dry inside. My body was seething underneath my clothing, my heart was in anguish, there was sadness in me. Of course there was. Thinking of my father and my brother was the most ravishing thing, way more hurtful than her words. The truth is that my mother wasn't talking _to me_. All of this was a cautiously planned show for a nation, it was not to sen me a message. She knew, after all, that I knew the truth. She couldn't fool me.

"_I reiterate here, in front of __the great state of__ Colorado and who else is listening to me, that the involvement of my firstborn __in __these terrorist actions does not shake, in any way, my commitment to my country and my __P__resident. On the contrary. Now I have real knowledge of the dangers of these infidels __delinquent __movements __that__ can infiltrate within your home without you, devoted __parent__, __even realizing it_."

"_My God, she speaks __as if __we'__ve__blown up a school full of children_." Kenny said.

"Well, there was a bomb. That caused complete panic." Wendy said thoughtfully, rubbing her chin. "Civilians were killed because of that. Trampled, even. And we didn't know that was going to happen."

"Civilians died because the sappers shoot first and question later." Kenny replied, sounding a little annoyed.

Meanwhile, my mother wiped a single tear from the corner of her eye on the television screen. Gregory, very focused, made a violent "shh" for the two of them to be quiet. His eyes never left the TV.

"_Kyle, __beware__: the consequences of __your__ choice are coming. You are alone in the world now. __You no longer have a__ family. That is all. Thank you all and for __the__ attention, have a good night. Father save our __Old __America_."

And just like that, the image of my mother disappeared, giving way to the government channel symbol, with a high-pitched hum that was the only thing to fill the tense silence in the room. For me, there was nobody else around. I could feel Stan's hand squeezing mine, his gaze on me, but it was as if my mind had disconnected from my body. I heard Gregory say. "Well, this is wonderful."

I frowned and turned to him so fast that I was almost dizzy. He tore me from the trance. Stan glared Gregory with angry eyes like I'd rarely seen before. Gregory seemed to take a second to realize what he had said. His expression suddenly changed. "Oh. I didn't mean...I'm sorry, Kyle." He rubbed his hands on the sides of his pants. "But do you understand what just happened here? She rejected her own son for all the state to see, and tomorrow that footage will be running the whole country. If not the world. She turned you into a martyr."

"What? What the hell are you talking about, Gregory?" I asked.

"It doesn't matter what you did, who you are, a mother disowning her child is seen as something unnatural. If you would be seen as a symbol of resistance simply for being her son, now... She just shot herself in the foot. It's almost stupid of hers."

I didn't know what to say, so I just kept quiet, which seemed to embarrass him a little. The smile on his face slowly died. It wasn't my intention, though. I turned my face to Stan, who seemed thoughtful, but when he caught me looking at him, his expression relaxed and started to stroke my back as a form of comfort.

"Kyle..." Gregory said, kneeling beside me, putting his hand on my thigh. All this pitty touching began to bother me. I could feel the pity in the eyes of others, even those who didn't know me. People began to disperse around the living room. Slowly, I diverted my attention from others to turn it to Gregory, staring into his blue eyes, apathetic. He continued. "I know this whole thing is impossibly complicated, but think about what it means to us."

"It's not complicated, Gregory. It's very simple. I know the person who gave birth to me." I could hear the aggression in my own voice, but Gregory didn't seem to feel attacked. He took his hand off me, nodded and gave me a sad smile.

"Of course you do. Let's just see the aftermath in the upcoming days."

"Yeah."

With this, we got up. Kenny looked at me with concern on his face, put his foot forward to follow, but I raised my hand to stop him. Kenny had a very great sensitivity as to when he should or should not invade someone's space. He recognized immediately when a person needed to be alone.

The room started to feel tight, full of buzz, though it was gradually getting empty. That amount of people suffocated me. Standing up sort of disrupted me, my weight felt way more than my weak legs could carry. I wasn't sure if I could take a single step by myself. I heard someone calling my name, but didn't recognize the voice. The surroundings moved excruciatingly slowly, the shapes of things started to get blurry; contours separated from the colors that filled them, everything seemed so cloudy. And then, a tight pain in my chest and stomach forced me to push away the blond blur in front of me - Gregory? Kenny? Pip? I couldn't tell - and run because pain moves us more than anything else. I didn't think I could walk until the need was established, then there was no choice.

I ran staggering into the dirty bathroom in the hallway, slamming against bodies and walls which I had to dodge from, but couldn't. I banged my elbow in some barrier (the door frame, maybe?) and got a bruise, but at the time I didn't feel any pain. I started to sweat, even though I was shivering from the cold. Or whatever else.

Arriving at the small bathroom, I poured the entire contents of my stomach on the filthy toilet that had already had the seat up. Without thinking, I hugged the cold porcelain of the toilet because I needed to preserve my sense of reality and the only way I found was through grabbing things to feel them in my hands. I would regret that as soon as I was done throwing up. Before that, however, I laid my forehead on the edge of the toilet and closed my eyes for a few seconds, quieting my uncontrolled breathing. Little by little, I found myself in that dark bathroom, sitting on the tiles that stole my heat. I raised my head slowly. Stan was leaning on the door frame I had no time to shut, arms fallen on the sides of his body. It was too dark for me to see his expression, but I could feel his calm, reassuring energy.

Suddenly I heard Stan talking to someone in the hallway. Someone I could not see. "What do you want?"

A moment of silence took place before the person - a man with a French accent – asked "Is he okay?"

"Yes."

Stan didn't ask him to leave, but it was quite implicit in the tone of his voice, I could tell. My senses were, little by little, getting back to normal. The shadow in the hallway left without saying anything. As slowly as possible, I pulled away from the toiled and leaned against the cold wall behind me. The bathroom was so narrow that I barely had to move, there was a very limited space between the toiled and the opposite wall. I wiped the sweat from my brow with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, taken by that relief that comes after vomiting. I kept still, staring at nothing for a while, not feeling quite ready to talk. The malaise ceased every time the air filled my lungs. I had never felt a disconnection that strong from the world around me, even when I was immersed in the chaos of the President's birthday. I felt perfectly sane, but my body did not respond to commands, simple as that.

"Kyle." He called me.

"I'm fine." I said mumbling, confirming what he wasn't sure of.

There was a terrible bitter taste in my mouth and only part of it was because of the vomit. My heart was going back to place, normalizing the pace of its beats.

Stan didn't say anything during that short period when I put my hand on my chest, took a deep breath and prepared to stand up with the aid of the wall. I spat in the toilet one last time, then put the seat down and flushed. I rested one hand on the sink and used the other one to cover my eyes. My head throbbed.

"Do you..." I start the question with a trembling voice, turning to face him. "Do you think she meant it?"

He narrowed his eyes uncertainly, licking his lips as he thought of the right words. I really hated when he began to handle me with kid gloves.

"I think she's the type of woman willing to fake the death of a child to protect him from the war she supports."

"That's different. Ike has no fault of being Canadian. I chose this shit!"

"You really think that makes a difference to her? Your mom thinks every Canadian is a demon. But she always puts the two of you before everything else." Stan hid his hands in his pockets and looked at me fondly, something that hadn't happened in a while. I could see how painful it was for him as well. "I honestly think she did it to send you a message, that you don't try to go home because they will get you. She's pushing you away to protect you."

Maybe I hadn't yet assimilated how much we had to leave behind. Again, Ike's conceited stupid face invaded my thoughts, those black eyes that always looked so alive... My chest tightened every time I realized I had no idea when or if I would see him again. I felt suffocated, claustrophobic, it was so hard to breathe. I had never felt so exposed and so stuck in my life. I felt castrated, to say the least; I had never known what actual freedom was, with constant vigilance and the imminent risk of being shot if you were walking down the street at the wrong time. But this was different, it was part of our lives. Having my face exposed on all screens of the state government channel, considering that this had national repercussions, with my own mother exposing things so private to our family, even things that were not true... And I just could not be Kyle Broflovski anymore. All I knew, everything I loved, everything that made me who I was also put me at risk. Kyle Broflovski was already a known name in South Park, it was a name remembered for so many reasons that I had not chosen, and I just had my mother to blame for it. Now it was my fault.

"What have I done, Stan?"

"Hey." He took me in his arms with some haste, looking somewhat frightened. It was only when I buried my face in his shirt and felt the wet fabric that I realized: I was crying. "We knew it would be fucked up. Don't blame yourself, you know you had no choice. You would have languished if you tried to live the way she wanted."

I barely heard what he said, but it didn't really matter. What mattered was his calm voice, the stroke he gave me in the back of my head, his heart beating so softly next to mine, all that kept me standing. He was my strength. It was the first time I felt him truly devoted to the fight.

I don't know for how long we were embraced in that dark bathroom, feeling each other's breathing, sharing warmth. Stan was very warm and it made me feel at home. I thought many times to say something, to apologize, to explain how much I needed him in the midst of chaos. But it felt so unnecessary. There, immersed in the silence, I knew, somehow, he had forgiven me.


	23. The Fire

November 23, 3644

It was such a beautiful cold afternoon. The sky was loaded with clouds, as usual, but the sunlight could penetrate through the thick layer of pollution and reach us at least a little bit. It was so rare to see the rays of sunshine as clearly as on that day. Also, it wasn't raining, which was always pleasant. There was something comfortable in the air, in the mood, I couldn't point out what exactly. The house was quiet and empty; there were people sleeping, others strolling outside and others, seizing the good weather going to town to buy supplies and resolve some issues. The first few times people did that, I always felt his ghastly pang, unable to shake away the bad feeling that something horrible was going to happen every time the van left with six or eight people putting themselves at risk to return to the city. But at the end of the day, everyone always came back alive and well. So we started to get used to it, creating some kind of routine. The comfort with this situation started to scare me.

That afternoon, in particular, I was wrapped in a blanket, lying on a mattress in the living room that we used as a sofa during the day. I read a book borrowed from a girl named Natalie, who was very small and moody, but generous. And cuddling up like that was the most similar thing to a common life that I had experienced in a while. It was good. I could get used to that.

We knew this would be a short period, until our injured got well enough so we could leave the city. I guess that was always the plan, at least for me and those who were closest to me. Much was discussed about where exactly would we go, and just as much was speculated about who were those people, the man and the woman who were always with Gregory and Christophe in silence, the New Yorkers. We talked about them, not to them, and they never tried to speak with us either. The boy, Trent, was as silent as Christophe and he only smiled when he made some sadist comment. The woman, Nichole, gave me the creeps.

For there I was, reading a fascinating book about sea creatures. I had never actually seen the sea, but I was very interested in everything that lived in it. I wasn't thinking about the war, about the announcement of over eight thousand American soldiers killed in combat, about Tweek's death or Butters' death or about my mother rejecting me, about my

submissive father or my brother I may never see again. Of course, I couldn't participate in these visits to the town. Kenny went back every time he had a chance, just for his little sister. I went crazy with worry every time, reliving the horror of that fucking miserable night when I thought he was never coming back. Kenny told me he was just another trailer trash, that no one would be looking for him. That's how he tried to comfort me. And I would just accept it because I knew it was useless to try to stop him; Kenny was a wild animal, he got distressed when he felt trapped inside that house for too long. Anyway, I wasn't thinking about Kenny either. What I was thinking about was the giant squid.

"Hey, Kyle. I made some coffee, would you like a cup?" Gregory asked, emerging from the kitchen door, holding an aluminum mug that had once been painted green, but was now almost completely peeled. He looked really good in red, like he was wearing right now.

"What?" I asked absently, taking a few seconds to take my eyes from the yellowed pages. "Oh. No, thanks."

Breaking the companionable silence, we heard an angry voice coming from outside. I didn't really understand what they were saying, but I also didn't pay that much attention, too focused on my book. Gregory sipped his coffee and put his other hand in the pocket of his beige cotton pants, entering the living room to look through the front window; He stopped halfway and frowned. There was fume coming out of his mug. Fuck, the smell of coffee was amazing. What tore my attention from the book was the bang of Token opening the door.

"Unbelievable." He scoffed, shaking his head with a bitter smile on his face that I had never seen him wear before.

I didn't put the book aside immediately, hesitant to get involved in whatever it was. But Gregory wasted no time in approaching the door, still open, peering who he had been arguing with to get that pissed off. He probably already knew the answer before that. Token seemed quite intimidating when he was angry. He was a tall, big man. He gave Gregory a good look as if he hadn't recognized him yet, then he aggressively pointed to the door and said, "I didn't spent an entire night trying to save that asshole's life for him to choose to have internal bleeding now! He's completely crazy!"

My curiosity got the best of me. I raised my head a little so I was able to see through the window, as discreetly as I could; exactly as expected, he was referring to Christophe. The scene was uncomfortable and it made my stomach turn for a number of reasons. He was chopping wood with an old rusty ax, making way more physical effort than his delicate state could handle, wearing only a dark flannel shirt too thin for how cold it was outside. I shook my head, troubled, moving around on the mattress. That imbecile.

"He's in no condition to be doing any physical activity." Token continued. The tone of his voice was much more concerned than angry, that's where his nervousness came from. I could feel it now. "I swear, if he starts to bleed, I won't do a thing about it. He shouldn't even be out of bed yet."

"Fuck, Mole..." Gregory muttered through his teeth, crossing his arms, holding the mug near his mouth. He didn't take his eyes off Christophe.

"He doesn't listen to a word I say. Get your ass out there and tell that idiot to stop trying to kill himself, please." Token said.

Gregory let out a short laugh in derision. "Have you met Mole? Nobody tells him to do or stop doing anything."

Token threw both hands in the air and shook his head, stammering a bit before letting his arms fall to his sides, slapping his own thighs. "Well, then let him die out there, because I give up." He said before heading to the stairs, puffing. He stepped hard on the wooden floor.

To my surprise, Gregory didn't seem frightened. I couldn't even find concern in his face. He watched the scene for a few moments in the same position, arms crossed, sipping coffee. His expression was unreadable; he had this strange look in his eyes and the corners of his lips seemed to want to get up, but not in a smile. The letters printed on the pages of the book no longer made sense to me. We were silent for a while, only the strong sound of the ax entering the wood filled the environment.

"Maybe you should talk to him." Gregory said suddenly, turning his head to me a little after finishing the sentence. "He listens to you."

It was my turn to laugh because he had no idea what a bunch of bullcrap he had just said. I closed the book without checking the page I left off and put my feet on the ground, putting on my slippers without knowing why, since I had no intention of getting up.

"Since when?"

Christophe and I hadn't spoken to each other since the incident in Butters' funeral. To tell the truth, I had hardly seen him in the previous days. Since we met, he had always been somehow close to me. Our connection was instant. Now, without that, I could see how aloof he was with others and he was always outside any type of gathering. He was almost never in the house, and when he was, he hid inside the room. The few times I saw him, at dinner time or at some other moment during the night, he was alone or in the company of that guy, Trent. The two seemed to never even exchange words.

It was easier to bear the distance when he wasn't around, when I didn't have to look at him, but every time Christophe and I were in the same room and I could feel the abyss between us, the hole in my chest grew. He didn't even look at me, never recognized that I was there.

On second thought, Gregory's question certainly had been purposeful. He knew he was putting salt in an open wound. I didn't know if Christophe talked to him or not; probably not, but when it comes to a person as perceptive as Gregory, it wasn't necessary.

"Well, I think it's worth the try." He replied, heading back to the kitchen.

"And why don't you go?"

Gregory stopped right in front of the kitchen door, his back to me. He touched the doorframe, spending a few seconds in silence. Enough time to scare me a little. I couldn't see the expression on his face.

"Well, I'm not the reason he's there." That's what he said before going inside the kitchen.

Instinctively, I got up. I wanted to see Christophe through the window again, make sure he was still there. I kept holding the book of red cover, pressing it against my chest for a while, my brain confused about what to do or where my legs should take me. My feet moved a little, but they didn't know which direction to follow. The sound of wood being cut seemed louder now. Not that it made any sense.

"Shit." I muttered to myself, throwing the book on the mattress, the crumpled blanket softening the fall.

I ran toward the open door and closed it carefully behind me before going down the small porch steps, which creaked under my weight.

The day was even more beautiful outside. The evening had this pink-orange aspect to everything, embellishing that half-dead garden covered by dry leaves. There was a pile of chunks of wood, and other bigger pieces were thrown on the opposite side. Christophe positioned the wood on a cut trunk, striking it with the ax in a precise, violent blow. He never missed it. I watched him repeat this process three times as I approached, closing my coat because of the freezing cold, crossing my arms for warmth. He didn't acknowledge my presence, even though he knew exactly who was coming near him. I didn't have the courage to get too close. He was under the shade of a large tree, but the branches had dried completely. The trunk of the tree was so dark it looked black.

"Christophe." I called, distressed by his coldness. And, not coincidentally, he proceeded to strike the wood with a little more hatred after hearing my voice. Getting some sort of reaction, even a negative one, caused me some relief. Although it made me take a step back. "Can we talk?"

After slamming the ax so hard on the wood that splinters flew to my feet, he finally stopped. He turned to me and put one foot on the cut trunk, supporting the ax over his shoulder, licking his lips. He was sweating over the physical effort, even with the cold. The first three buttons of his shirt were open (some of them were missing), revealing his chest covered in sweat. His breathing was also irregular. He stared at me, waiting, his face clear of any expression. But his eyes were fierce.

And then I realized that I didn't know what to say.

And he knew that I wouldn't know what to say.

He waited long enough for me to be embarrassed, stammering, trying to choose carefully what would come out of my mouth, but I wasn't prepared for it. It was an impulsive choice. After a few seconds, he offered me a sarcastic little laugh and turned his attention back to the wood, grunting this time, such was the anger he used to chop the wood. I could see the tension in his muscles. That began to made me anxious; The only thought in my head was the stitches in his stomach, keeping the bullet wound close. The images of him bleeding in my arms were always there, every day, coming back to me.

"All right! You're angry, I know! Just… Please, drop that ax and scream at me instead."

He paused for a second with the ax in the air, ready for the next blow, but rather gave a bitter smile and shook his head. It was hard for him to breathe, most likely because of the pain. After splitting the piece of wood in half with a horribly loud noise, he turned to look at me. This time, there was definitely an expression on his face.

I've always been able to understand why Christophe intimidated people. It wasn't just the fact that he was big, that his arms looked like they were made of steel. It had barely anything to do with his physical size and more to do with something that came from within. It wasn't just the fact that he was grouchy, rude, explosive. That's not what was scary about him. What really scared people were his eyes. I could vividly remember the night I saw him kill a man for the first time, Roy. Poor Roy. He died like a fucking dog, probably lived like one too. I specifically remember the sounds of Roy's skull being crushed against the asphalt. And more than that, the spark in Christophe's eyes when he was done. You see, it wasn't a satisfactory sadism; he didn't like hurting people, but his eyes reported a wildness that I could only recognize in actual animals. I've never seen anything like it in a human. Christophe had this pair of eyes that said he was capable of anything when he was beside himself, that he had a wolf inside him ready to come out and he had no intention of controlling it.

The last time he looked at me that way, he was so frail he could barely walk by himself. Now he was strong enough to cut wood and clutched the handle of an ax between his fingers. And yet, I was sure that he would not hurt me.

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" He said in a hoarse, oddly restrained voice, taking two steps toward me, kicking the wood out of the way. The smile on his face was just creepy. Slowly it disappeared, giving way to a look of disgust as he came closer to me. "There's so much shit going on, so many people dying, but you still think that this is about you. Like I don't have thousands of far worse problems than a narcissist little bitch who can't dump his boyfriend." It was almost hard to understand what he was saying, as his accent was so heavy when he got pissed. He raised his ax a little as he gestured with his hands, raising his voice, his face getting closer to mine. "Here's some news for you, Broflovski: I'm not angry at you. I don't give a fuck what you do with your miserable little life or what you stick up your ass. I don't. Fucking. Care."

And with that, he turned back to the trunk, took a large piece of wood and went back to what he was doing as if nothing had happened; except that now there was a very light tremor in his hands. He struck the ax so hard that it cut through the wood and the blade got stuck in the cut trunk. He shouted a loud curse in French that had nothing to do with the wood or the ax, pulling the handle as hard as he could.

"Christophe... Please, stop it, you'll burst your stitches." I asked in an almost pleading voice, trying to get closer to him, completely forgetting to get offended by the things he had said.

"And what the fuck do you care if I do?! What the fuck do you have to do with it?!"

"Are you crazy?! Because I love you!" It was the first thing that came out of my mouth, a shrill cry of something I hadn't admitted even to myself yet. Instinctively, I touched his arm, but he pulled back and narrowed his eyebrows as if my touch had hurt him. I took a deep breath. "Because... Because when I thought you were dying..."

"Just get away from me, Kyle." He said, visibly disturbed now, more than anything.

"Listen to me. I don't want to make things worse, but I need you to know this." I took a long pause, staring at the ground as I tried my hardest not to fuck it up. "Nothing that I said was a lie. I didn't say any of that just because I thought you were dying."

He grimaced like he felt a bad taste in his mouth, slightly shook his head and supported his right foot on the trunk to pull the ax by the handle, managing to unstuck it from the wood. Then he looked at me with narrowed eyes, his mouth half open. He seemed disappointed, more than anything else.

"I'm sorry, Kyle, but I won't help you feel better about yourself. That's all you want here. If you were worried about me, you'd leave me the fuck alone."

For a while I stood there. He didn't go back to chopping wood, he just held the ax by the shoulder, squeezing it tightly between his fingers, his arm fallen on the side of his torso. He looked up, not wanting to meet my eyes. And I followed his gaze, seeing the birds flying over our heads, so high that they only seemed like distant silhouettes. I couldn't identify what kind of bird they were. When I returned my attention to the ground, Christophe had thrown the ax hard to the ground and was now gathering the rest of wood that had been chopped.

I watched him carefully, as if trying to memorize his face and body. As a part of me was afraid of never seeing him again. I took a deep breath, wiping my mouth with his hand. My eyes were burning.

"You're right." I whispered. He didn't seem to pay me attention. "You're... Absolutely right. I just thought..." I made a long pause, taking both hands to my eyes. The side of my head ached, almost throbbed. I felt stupid. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

And I was sincere when I said that. I really wasn't seeking to mend something, to resume that relationship, nothing like that. I wasn't even sure how I'd gotten there. It was this gravitational force that drew me to him, stronger than myself. But my choice was made. There was no point in picking on the wounds.

As I climbed the porch stairs, I felt his eyes on my back. I fought with all my strength not to turn my head, but I could see him perfectly in my mind... He was standing there with a straight back, holding the wood in his arms, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, looking like a wounded animal. I wouldn't be able to go inside the house if I turned my head to look at him again.

My senses were so altered as I pushed the door open and stepped into the living room, sniffling, lowering my head to dry a the tears that started building up in my eyelids. It wasn't because of Christophe, not exactly. There comes a point where you're just tired of losing people. Especially those who are still alive.

It took a few seconds for me to realize I wasn't alone. Gregory was next to the window, arms folded and a stern expression on his beautiful face, no longer holding the aluminum mug in his hand. He lifted his chin, his eyes softening a bit when he realized that I was crying. I considered going up to our room, but Stan was taking a nap and I didn't want to wake him, specially not like that. And it was so rare for him to be able to sleep in the middle of the afternoon.

I waited for Gregory to say something, but he just turned to look out the window again. He looked worried.

"Did he tell you?" I asked. If I had given that idea a little thought, I wouldn't have asked. It just jumped out of my mouth, almost in a tone of aggression.

Gregory turned his head ominously slowly to me, his face as calm as ever.

"About what?" He threw the question right back at me, even though he knew exactly what I was talking about. I could see it in his eyes, it was a rhetorical one. When I thought he would force me to speak, which I wouldn't, I thought the conversation was over. I shook my head and walked toward the stairs, but Gregory's voice froze me in place. "That he's in love with you?"

I hesitated, licking my lower lip and sighing impatiently, turning only my head to see him. Gregory looked like a statue, always impeccable, even in such a dirty place, even in such an inhuman situation. He laid his face a little to the side, studying me with curiosity, which made me very uncomfortable. Like he saw right through me.

"No, he didn't tell me." He said, shrugging.

"I just wanted to know if he was okay."

Thus, Gregory smiled. It was impossible for me to know whether he was being malicious or not. If he was angry or hurt or just worried. I had never met anyone so good at hiding his feelings.

"Who the hell is okay these days, right?" That's what he told me. By his posture and the way he pushed away from the wall to walk to the kitchen, I realized that was all he was going to say about it. For some reason, I wasn't relieved.


	24. The Communion

May 26, 3660

Well hello there. I missed you, you know? It seems to me that the events of the past have been so intense lately, so you and I hardly ever meet anymore. I don't regret it, because I believe that's the natural order of things. We must look at the past, and so, understand much better the things that are to happen when we move forward. Oh, there are so many things you haven't seen it. We're approaching another strong moment of breakthrough. But for now, today is a day of celebration, and you're invited to the party (in a way).

Tonight, we will follow Kyle's birthday dinner and two simultaneous events taking place at different locations of Gregory's house. Those important encounters will take place soon, encounters that maybe should have happened a long time ago. Let's not think like that. Let's start from the beginning, shall we?

Kyle and Christophe are walking on the sidewalk of the historic Residential District of South Park, a place dominated by imposing Victorian houses that have been remodeled over time. Gregory lives in a blue house, two floors plus an attic, with an excess of little balconies and ornaments adorning the construction, lots of windows and a large porch on the side, surrounded by columns built in white wood. You could say that this is Gregory's house just by looking at it. The garden is vast and full of trees and shrubs, flowers that Gregory himself takes care of with fatherly love. Kyle, carrying a bottle of Portuguese white wine, walks a little ahead. Christophe has both hands in his pockets, a leather jacket thrown over his shoulder that he has no intention of wearing, he just brought over Kyle's insistence. It unusually hot tonight, actually. They are in the middle of an argument as they cross the open iron gate.

"I can't believe you agreed to this " Kyle said, a very angry affectation in his voice.

The Mole shrugs as if he has nothing to do with it. "He talked as if it were something you guys do every year, how the fuck should I know?"

They are talking about Gregory's overly loving ambush. Truth be told, Gregory doesn't make invitations without a certain forcible insistence. Neither Kyle nor Christophe are what you might call _social beings_.

"Well, yeah. Every goddamn year he finds a way to get me out of the house against my will." Kyle groans, going up the porch's small stairs to ring the bell. Soon, Christophe is right behind him. Kyle looks over his shoulder to look at him for a second, then embraces the bottle of wine and says, turning to look forward. "All I really wanted was to spend my birthday at home drinking margaritas and sucking your dick."

His tone is so casual that it takes Christophe a second to frown his eyebrows in surprise. I would love if Kyle could see his face right now. Or you, for that matter. It's fucking priceless. But before he can give an answer – though he doesn't have the slightest idea what to say - the door opens.

"Finally!" Gregory exclaims in a high tone, throwing over his shoulder a cloth he was using to dry his hands.

You would say, judging only by Kyle's complains, that he doesn't like to visit the man before him. But you see, that's not it. He enters the house with intimacy, stopping very close to Gregory so they can kiss each other on the cheek. They look at each other with love. Kyle's smile widens when enters the room and sees Kenny walking toward him with open arms.

"Hey, I thought we would have a party without the birthday boy!" Kenny exclaims, grabbing him around the waist to give him a hug that takes Kyle's feet off the ground. The two of them laugh. Kenny swings him a little in his arms before putting him back on the floor, leaving a lingering kiss on his forehead, which becomes easy with their height difference. "Congratulations for surviving another year."

At the same time, Christophe follows behind and greets Gregory with a slap on the shoulder; that's pretty much the amount of affection he's able to demonstrate. Gregory winks at him, smiling, picking up his coat to keep it on the rack by the door.

"Fuck, Gregory. " The Mole says, looking around. "Everyone knows you're a fag, you don't have to try so hard to show it."

He refers to the room's interior decoration, from baby pink wallpaper to the Greco-Roman sculptures of male bodies in different sizes, the crystal chandelier, red velvet upholstery, embroidered artwork of women wearing bouffant dresses and children with dogs. There is also an old cabinet, porcelain distributed on the wall and beverage bottles in a small bar. After all, I think the bastard has a certain taste, even though it is kind of baroque. He is not offended by the comment, of course.

The other two people present who are sitting on the couch holding wine glasses, engaged in an animated conversation, are Wendy and Bebe. The two get up as soon as Kenny puts Kyle down to say hello, wish him a happy birthday and give him a gift wrapped in beautiful golden paper. They embrace in a time-consuming manner, which makes Kyle think that he sees them way less than he would like. Soon after, Bebe goes to Christophe and stands on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, which still makes him feel a little awkward, but he gives her his best smirk, barely growing the corners of his mouth. Wendy greets him with a smile, without physical contact, as she knows he prefers.

"It's so good to see you again." She tells him, and it's the truth.

Wendy now has messy black hair, long enough only to cover the ears, neck-length. As an adult woman, she resumed the habit of wearing skirts as her own choice, getting rid of the feeling that it would make her less strong. And this night in particular, he wears a black dress that makes her silhouette look beautiful, nude lipstick so subtle that you hardly realize it's there. She's an elegant person of light movements. Time made her even more beautiful, if you ask me. Bebe still preserves those blond curls, full and alive, but now she keeps it tied up, revealing her long neck. For her, it's as if time hasn't virtually passed, at least for her physical appearance. She still has a girlish air, with that melancholy hidden behind those eyes of one whose life has been so very difficult. The two of them live together on the other side of town, closer to the urban area, in a large three-bedroom apartment with a wonderful view of the mountains.

When Gregory promised that this would be an intimate dinner with only the people who Kyle himself would have invited, the truth is that Kyle didn't take it very seriously. He thought he'd have to share his birthday with people who weren't that intimate. Although, at some level, their social circle continued to be among those people who have shared their years of resistance. And that's not because they haven't tried to connect with ordinary people. They tried, yes indeed. It may not be possible for a common person to understand this, but they all carry ghosts and scars so deep that they no longer know how to relate to people who have never seen that kind of darkness.

But even among his old rebel friends, partners in war, Kyle prefers to be with these few people on such a melancholy day like this one. Birthdays, for him, aren't exactly a happy date.

Gregory goes back to the kitchen, refusing both Kenny and Wendy's offers to help finishing dinner. It's almost nine-thirty, the dining room table is already set. Kenny takes the bottle of wine from Kyle's hands and goes to the bar, beginning to serve drinks. He notices, from a distance, when Christophe approaches Kyle and whispers something in his ear. Kyle unconsciously puts his hand on the other man's chest while listening. Kenny close his eyes for a second while serving the whiskey with ice Christophe had asked for, pouring a little too much into the cup over the distraction. When Kenny approaches the two of them while holding their glasses, Christophe thanks him, but leaves the drink on the coffee table to go smoke outside by himself. Anyway, Kyle sits on the couch with the girls, who are quietly holding hands, Bebe thumb stroking Wendy's index finger, the two talking to each other about something, keeping their voices very low. Kenny sits on the chair next to the couch and supports his foot on the table, taking a sip of his own liquor.

"So." He said. "How's it going?"

This question is biased for a specific purpose and they both know it so well that Kyle's reply is an almost embarrassed smile. He shrugs, not knowing how to answer that. Maybe because Kenny has that look of someone who always knows when he's telling the truth or not. I don't know if last night's events are still fresh in his memory, but for Kyle, everything just happened. Everything. Christophe's return to his life, the fight that dug up old pains, the burning relief of feeling him completely, the violence of that night attack. The feeling of hands that had burned his skin with that hot gentle touch as they fucked, and a few hours after that, those same hands choked him to the point that he really thought he wouldn't survive. Maybe Kenny can smell the turmoil, or maybe he's just wondering why Kyle called him the day after Christophe's arrival, sounding so disturbed, then said it was nothing and hang up.

Kyle and Kenny have a curious relationship. Kyle can't understand exactly why Kenny became such a lonely person over the years. They are still close friends, and I can say that Kenny is the best friend he has in this world (I mean "friend" in the purest sense of the word, cause Gregory means something else entirely in Kyle's life), but they no longer see each other as often. Kyle feels that Kenny is somewhat nomadic and disconnected from the human race. He'll never be able to understand why, but I do and I can explain it. As you already know, Kenny is different from other people. He has already met other worlds beyond, has died more times than I can count. At the revolution days, his deaths were countless, most of them to protect other people. Not even just people he loved. Sometimes he goes missing, spends time walking through the world of the dead. And it's nice here, you know? It's not as dark as you would think. I really like when he comes to visit me. We talk a lot.

It seems that Kyle and Stan are the only people who still keep him connected to earth. He carries, perhaps a little like me, this role of taking care of them, looking out for them with an outsider's eyes. These three have always had a special kind of connection and no one else could fit in what they had. Maybe Stan and Kyle's break up has hurt Kenny just as much as it hurt them both.

"It's all right." Kyle finally says. I think that sums it up pretty good.

"Yeah?" Kenny retorts, raising his eyebrows. It's beautiful, the way he knows Kyle better than the palm of his hand. "Is there something going on between you two?"

Straight to the point.

Kenny likes to ask questions he already knows the answer to. That doesn't annoy Kyle, not at all. But something that deeply saddens me is to realize how Kyle used to talk about his feelings so much easier, he was always so open about the things that happened to him when he was younger. Time made these things seem impossible, first because the self-preservation instinct is the strongest thing he has after years of living without knowing if he would wake up the next day. But we also have the fact that the roots of his history with Christophe have to do with the war, the dictatorship, the torture, the fighting, the fear of death. In some strange way, Kyle's feelings for this man were born amidst a tangle of confusing things, the smell of soot and the loss of his innocence. Loving Christophe, Kyle learned how to fight and killed his first human. Their love for each other was born in this arid soil. So, talking about it can mess with things so deep inside him, things that are on the basis of who he is today.

Considering all of this, Kyle just turns to Bebe and Wendy, interrupting his conversation with the question, "What about the baby girl, how is she?"

Both women open a wide smile that barely fits on their faces. Last year, they adopted a Nigerian girl named Nala. Now, she's two years and three months old, and she's the cutest most delicious thing in the world. Sometimes, I'll go visit her. I wasn't very fond of children when I was alive, but now, I see the extraordinary potential of life they have and it fascinates me. Another interesting thing is that babies can see me. I don't know exactly when the world tears this connection from children and they stop seeing people like me. Most of them, at least.

"Oh, she's so beautiful! You have to go visit her, Kyle, she's grown so much since you last saw her." Bebe says, stirring the white wine in the glass. "And she's so clever!"

From that whole intimate group, these two are the people who were best able to get a normal life after the end of the war, the end of the revolution. Perhaps because Bebe's story regarding the revolution has been very different from the others, starting with the way she joined the fight. She always had a light in her, a desire to live that never went out because of her sad life story. Wendy feeds on that light, maybe she wouldn't have been able to have a normal life if she hadn't fallen in love with Bebe so desperately. They are complementary in such a beautiful way that makes me wish I had lived such a simple, easy love when I was alive. Oh well. That's not for everyone.

Christophe comes back inside but doesn't sit with them. Instead, he stands next to the window studying a Chinese vase on the table beside him. Wendy stubbornly goes to help Gregory in the kitchen. These two are very similar, it's cute to see them fighting in there while Bebe and Kyle talk about babies and Kenny approaches Christophe by the window, trying to make small talk about his time in Europe, which almost works. In twenty minutes, Gregory appears in the living room taking off his apron, announcing dinner.

Say what you will about Gregory, he's arrogant and conceited, that's all true. But he's also very devoted and pays much attention to the people who are important to him, he cares about the details. He knows how much Kyle loves his gratin potatoes and his smoked salmon, and God knows it's not easy to get fresh salmon in South Park. There is a lovely table set in the dining room, an embroidered towel that Gregory's grandmother made by hand. She was an angry British old lady who died almost twenty years ago, victim of an untreated kidney infection. Gregory didn't particularly loved her, but he only uses this towel on very special occasions. The candlesticks, however, are part of any normal dinner by himself on a Thursday night.

"I would like to say something very briefly before we eat." Gregory says, raising his glass when everyone is already seating at the table. There is an empty chair, an unowned plate. "Kyle."

"Please, don't." Kyle says, rolling his eyes with love and laughing at the same time. It is contagious. The dynamic between these two is absolutely beautiful, if you ask me.

"I'm very grateful that you're here." Gregory ignores him. "Both at this dinner and on this planet." I have no words that could possibly describe the loving way Gregory looks at him for two or three seconds before proceeding. "Well. We have more than one reason to celebrate. The good son always comes back home, right? Mole. I'm also very grateful that you're here."

"I'll drink to that." Kenny says, finishing the toast before the whole thing gets too emotional.

These people eat and drink and talk as if nothing was. Even in the following years after the end of the revolution and the execution of the President, they couldn't get totally used to living in disregard, living the now in abundance. Of course, the utopia they dreamed about during those younger years was not fully achieved, and it may never be. Hunger still exists, the wheel keeps turning, the system remains the same, only without a dictatorship in power. But today, the struggles are different.

Christophe, sitting next to Kyle, whispers something in his ear that makes Kyle smile. They do a lot of that now, Kenny notices. Perhaps making him smile wasn't the intention, because Christophe looks confused, both very close to each other, and then something like a laugh escapes from his mouth with whatever Kyle's response was. Bebe takes a glance at this intimate moment and smiles without knowing why. Deep down, Bebe always thought that they would eventually find their way to each other. She hopes they've already done so. She sees that the Mole remains silent as always, shy and collected, but there is something very different about the man sitting at the table now and the rude young man she met sixteen years ago.

Suddenly, dinner is interrupted by the ring bell's sound. Gregory was serving himself some absurd amounts of salad, but stops the process to go answer the door.

I can see how Kyle's heart skips a beat suddenly, feeling tighter, his mouth becomes dry and his stomach freezes in precipitation. He is overcome by a feeling that hardly ever touched his chest those days: expectation. It is confirmed - but doesn't quiets down – by the dull sound of Stan's cane getting stronger in his timid step and the appearance of his pale face in the living room. He carries a package under his arm, but soon Gregory takes it to put it on a black wood corner table.

"Sorry." Stan says. "I'm late."

"You're just in time. We started dinner just now. This way." Gregory leads him to the empty chair with a gentle hand on his back. He also tells Stan all the people who are present. Wendy and Bebe greet with affection; Kenny, sitting at his side, slaps him on the shoulder.

Kyle has a "_I'm glad you came_" stuck in his throat that simply doesn't come out as he watches Stan sit right in front of him, his blue eyes looking so alive. It would sound too out of place to say something; perhaps it might even sounded fake, although it wasn't. He takes a very brief look at Christophe, who keeps on eating as if nothing had happened, because it hasn't. I admire this guy's ability to marginalize himself when he needs to. This dinner is much less awkward than it could be, thanks to the people involved. There is a huge sensitivity in those four people - Wendy, Kenny, Bebe and Gregory - to recognize that this isn't easy for any of the three and that they need support and responsiveness. As Christophe shows no discomfort in the same way, he knows things would be different if he weren't there, and it probably makes him feel more of an outsider than he actually is. It'll take him a long time to figure out that he is still family to these people.

They don't let there be silence chasms or discomfort. Kyle feels so hot inside and he finds it difficult to use the fork for good five minutes, so he only drinks. Drinks a lot in a very short period of time. Then he relaxes. He's quieter than usual, which makes Wendy talk to him more privately. And so the dinner follows with these parallel exchanges, more than in communion, until the tense air starts to dissipate.

There are millions of subtleties that I could describe about this scene. Millions, no exaggeration. The eyes of the dead are able to see things that no one else can. I see Stan rubbing his thumbs under the table to quiet his anxiety, I see Christophe staring at Stan in his peripheral vision whenever it's possible, like an animal keeping an eye on a predator, I see Bebe stealing potatoes from Wendy because she thinks they are tastiest when they come from her plate. I also see the concerned pucker between Gregory's eyebrows when he's looking at the three. I see Kenny winking at Kyle with a quiet smile, in an attempt of comfort that Kyle rejects because he's the king of denial, so he acts as if everything is fine, though his shoulders are hard as stone.

At this moment, I approach Kyle's chair in the most subtle way possible and stretch my hand to touch his shoulder. The muscles relax immediately under my touch, but the hair on his neck bristles uncomfortably. He frowns, but he doesn't feel me so strongly to the point of turning around to look for anything unusual. Instead, he just drink more. When he reaches out to grab the glass, his arm brushes against Christophe's and they move away a little as if they had done something wrong. They don't whisper in each other's ear or exchange smiles for the rest of the meal.

Finally, Kyle is the first one to get up to collect the dishes, vehemently refusing Gregory's help. Christophe also gets up, looking for the pack of cigarettes in his pants pocket while heading up to the front door. Kenny, Bebe and Wendy continue drinking at the table, entertained in a deep conversation about the political state of China. Wendy, as always, speaks a little more than the others and quotes a numeric data sequence to defend her point. Kenny gracefully disagrees.

This is when the two encounters I told you about take place, at the same time, in different locations of the house. It's in shared solitude that these things happen. Let's begin:

_Stan and Kyle_

Kyle begins to wash the dishes alone in Gregory's dimly lit kitchen. Only the ceiling spotlights are lit, giving an almost romantic ambiance to the place. The curtains are wide open and you can see distant points of light on the street in that dark night when looking through the window. This isn't an especially large kitchen, and the dark wood counters make it look even smaller.

He's not particularly surprised when the door opens. It's a swing door that keeps going back and forward, the noise still filling the room after Stan steps in, standing there, leaning on his cane. He looks beautiful today, and that's one of the first things Kyle thinks while staring at this man with his blue shirt, a little wrinkled, and his hair that really needs to be cut. Perhaps the most beautiful aspect about Stan right now is the nudity of any defenses. Stan has a boy's glowing eyes and he looks so open, so willing and present in a way that scares Kyle. He looks back at the dirty dish becoming clean with the pressure of cold water.

"Hey." He mumbles in the lowest voice, knowing that Stan knows he's there. And even if he didn't know, Kyle would never do anything as low as taking advantage of his blindness in order to avoid facing him. Here they are, that's a fact. He has no intention of denying it.

"Hey..." Stan responds almost in the same tone, perhaps a little more vague. He just stands still for a moment, and in the meantime, Kyle doesn't scrub the plate and doesn't breathe. He goes back to doing he dishes when Stan uses his cane to guide his way to the counter, approaching him. Maybe intentionally, maybe not.

And no one knows what to say.

Kyle turns the tap off while there are still two plates left and a whole bunch of cutlery. He dries his hands on a damp cloth hanging on the wall and goes back to facing Stan, analyzing how the face of the young boy he'd known all his life had suddenly aged. He doesn't know exactly where did the last fourteen years go.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." Stan finally starts trying to put into words what motivated him to enter the kitchen in the first place.

"You didn't." Kyle responds immediately, then twists the scar under his eye in a brief frown, thoughtfully, not wanting to lie. "I mean... You know, it's not _you_, I just.." He rubs his face with cold hands. "I got so used to not expecting that you'd show up. I'd be lying if I said it didn't… Catch me off guard."

"I know."

"So what changed?"

Stan frowns his eyebrows, turning his face a few inches to the side. And I will tell you, his strange expression has nothing to do with not knowing the answer to that question, but more with the fact that Kyle has asked it. He shrugs, shaking his head without saying yes or no. He licks his lips and thinks about the right thing to say.

"I just realized that... I'm not angry anymore. You know? For such a long time, this pain was the only sure thing in my life. But I don't know, I didn't even know why I carried that with me." He pauses, not just waiting for an answer, but immersed in his own train of thought so that his words could be the most honest possible. "I won't lie, Mole coming back made me think about things I didn't really want to think about."

No one understands this better than Kyle, that's true.

It's a shame that Stan can't see Kyle's face with his own eyes right now. Not an easy face to look at, carved in suffering, the scar always getting deformed when he feels anything. He looks at Stan with clear eyes, eyes that glow in the dark and give direct access to his heart, beating so, so painful now. He feels a tightness in the stomach and needs to divert his face to the window; the neighborhood lights are dim all of the sudden.

"You shut the door so hard in my face." Kyle mutters softly, blinking slowly, holding the marble edge of the sink as if he needs it to keep standing. "So hard.."

"I know that. It's what I needed, I don't expect you to understand." He replies in a soft voice.

Stan is sensitive enough to know that Kyle has a stubborn tear trickling down his cheek, but he wipes it off with the back of his hand and acts as if it has never existed. Crying, however, doesn't affect his voice. It's not even crying, he just oozes through his eyes because he holds so much inside. Kyle leans against the counter and takes one hand to the stomach, a little down his belly, closing his eyes to breathe. Stan, on the contrary, stands still like a rock.

"So what now?"

"Now?" Stan asks, confused.

"Yeah." He simply says, shrugging, almost dropping a sad laugh. "What do I do with it?"

"I don't know, what do you want to do with it?"

The clatter of the door being pushed with force makes both of them turn their attention toward the sound. And Kenny, already a little drunk, realizes immediately that he has entered an intimate territory, breaking a spell that took place inside that kitchen. He stops where he is and observes his best friends for no more than a second before asking,

"Everythin' okay in here?"

He already has one foot back, ready to leave. But Kyle's red eyes Stan's restless air make him feel the weight of the responsibility to love these two. It's so hard to know when to give space to those you care about.

"Sure." Kyle is the first to answer, because Stan isn't as good at lying. "Why wouldn't it be?"

And with that, like a cornered animal, Kyle walks toward the door as if to say that they were already done anyway. But he passes by Stan, who reaches out his hand to feel his warmth so close, brushing his fingers on Kyle's arm. Kyle hesitates for a second, looks at Stan's hand and his tired face, but before the silence, he goes to the door without making eye contact with Kenny, who moved just enough so he'd have room to pass.

_Gregory and Christophe_

While all of that good stuff is happening in the kitchen, Gregory follows Christophe to the porch, closing the door behind him and stopping for a moment to enjoy the cool spring breeze. Now he crosses his arms and walks up to Christophe, who's resting his elbows on the rail around the edge, facing the street, half bent over. The orange tip of his cigarette glows in the dark. The green light of the moon looks like a spotlight in the sky, casting a dim light over them that makes the nuances of Mole's face more visible, but Gregory doesn't see it before he puts himself right at the man's side. Unceremoniously, he takes the cigarette from Christophe's fingers and takes a long, deep drag.

"Fuck, that's good." He says with satisfaction before releasing the smoke, giving the cigarette back.

"Since when do you smoke?"

"I don't. God, don't tell Kyle, we quit together."

Now the Mole frowns his thick eyebrows and turns slightly to one side, facing Gregory directly, looking more interested. He takes the cigarette to his mouth and there's such an expressive glow in his eyes; Gregory notices that the glow only appears when Kyle's name is mentioned. Some things never really change.

"Kyle smoked?"

"Yeah, it suited him. He made it look sexy."

"I can only imagine."

"Fourteen years is a long time, Mole." That's all Gregory says, contemplating his beautiful garden. Then he turns to look at the profile of that face so close to his, trying to recognize on that stranger's features the person he met in his teenage years. "I'm sure you've also done a lot of things that we have no idea."

Ah, he has indeed. Gregory still doesn't understand it completely, although he's talking in an imaginative level. But the things that happened to Christophe, especially those that led him to make the decision to return, they shaped his soul in a way that Gregory couldn't understand. Because he doesn't know. And the Mole, for now, has no intention of telling. He just shrugs.

"I guess."

Some comfortable moments of silence take over. It was always easy to get along with Gregory because he never had the need to fill the void with words, and the Mole needs that. He needs people who respect his silence.

"Hey. Is everything all right?" Gregory asks. "I know coming back can be difficult."

He smells Christophe's emotional disturbance as a dog, it's impressive. The only answer he gives is a glance and the almost-smile of someone who knows what the other person is trying to do and they're not having it, as if Gregory was a child trying to fool him. He says nothing. Gregory also doesn't insist. He rubs his chin a little, thoughtfully looking at the sky covered with pollution. Suddenly, he continues. "Actually, there's something I wanted to ask you about."

"Hm?"

"I'm worried about something." He still carries his glass of wine in hand, and faces the liquid for a while before taking a long sip, proceeding with the reasoning. "The strangest thing happened today, when I invited Kyle for dinner."

"He said yes?"

Gregory doesn't even bother to roll his eyes, keeping his lips parted for a few seconds. "He had these horrible bruises on the neck..." Gregory's long fingers play with his own neck as he remembers, distracted. "He doesn't know that I saw it, I think. He tried to hide with a scarf, as he did tonight, but I'm sure it's a strangulation mark. Do you know what happened?"

Christophe smokes more compulsively while listening to this speech that feels endless to him. He coughs a little because of the smoke, then just puts his head down and keeps on listening, avoiding any eye contact. Gregory knows him well enough to know there's something going on inside him.

"Mole?" He calls suspiciously. "Did he ask you not to tell me?"

"You should be asking him that." That's all Christophe replies, turning his head sharply to look at Gregory with obvious aggression in his eyes.

Eye contact is all that Gregory needs to read it completely. First, he frowns, doubting himself. Enough to punish himself mentally for allowing his mind to go to such a dark place, but the defensive across the Mole's figure is so strong that Gregory's heart begins to beat more slowly. He rests his glass over the rail and turns to face him completely.

"You didn't have anything to do with it, did you?"

Christophe ignores him, crushing his cigarette on the rail, then throwing it on the lawn. Gregory would have reprimanded him for it in other circumstances, but not now.

"I asked you a question." Gregory repeats, coming closer to him, his tine becoming denser. Almost violent. "Did you?!"

"Why don't you fucking mind your own goddamn business?"

See, there's one thing you should know about Gregory. He's someone who keeps himself under control extremely well, but that doesn't mean he isn't intimidating and able to act as violent as the Mole himself, only in a different way. A worse way. Gregory spends a few seconds just staring at him with a hard expression, cold as a wall, and it's almost impossible to tell what goes on inside his head. He takes the last step forward before his chest is almost touching Christophe's, gritting his teeth. "You fucking listen to me. I'll only say this once. You may be my person, yes, that will never change. I've understood some pretty fucked up shit you've done before, Christophe. But Kyle? He's my family. And if you did this to him, if you laid a single finger on him without his permission, I don't give a fuck what your reasons were, do not expect me to be by your side this time. I will not forgive you for this."

This is especially heavy from the only person who, for better or worse, always understood Christophe from all angles, always accepted and forgave him for everything. Indeed, fourteen years is a long time. And maybe, before this key moment, the Mole hadn't yet understood the kind of closeness that took place between Gregory and Kyle in his absence, the two people in the world who had him at their palms. For them, only them, Christophe would go to hell and return. Looking from the outside, no one would know how deep was the knife that Gregory had just stuck in his gut. And no one could tell how much it burns in Gregory's chest, how hard it is to say these things staring at Christophe's wounded wolf eyes.

"I don't expect a fucking thing from you." It's all the Mole says, pulling away from the rail, going back into the house.


	25. The Night

Night between December 24 and 25 of 3644

"Very well, I know you're all eager to start our festivities, but we should finish this first." Gregory said, smoothing out the tips of an unrolled map on the ground. The map had big marks in different colors, showing the possible routes that we could take to the small clandestine airport in Denver and the train station. "Does anyone have any questions?"

"Okay, let me see if I get it." Clyde said in his usual nasal, confused tone, sticking his index finger up his ear to remove the wax. Jesus, Clyde. Cartman let out a mocking laugh along with some insult to Clyde's intelligence, but I didn't pay him enough attention to actually hear it. "So we're not going all together?"

"That's right. We split into four groups that will go out in different times on January 1th. Some of you are going with me, others are going with Mole, another group goes with Trent and the last group goes with Nichole." He used the tip of his pen to press on the paper with a Professor attitude, even though he wasn't writing anything. "Do you all understand? But it's necessary that all of you know at least how to get at to the train station by yourselves, we don't know what might happen on the way there. The most important thing is that most of us get to the airport at 5 pm on the 1th. Our guy won't be able to wait more than that."

The plan was simple and effective: We would leave South Park to join forces with the Monarchs of New York. Gregory properly introduced Trent and Nichole with every formality that night and said that, from the next year on, we'd be part of a larger thing. I didn't understand exactly what he meant by "larger thing" at that time. Of course, moving at least forty people to the other side of the country didn't seem like a simple thing to do, especially when those faces were marked as traitors, but Gregory was telling us that, with a little bit of luck and the right friends, we could manage. He knew an airplane pilot who had a small and perfectly legalized private airport that provided services with small airplanes that couldn't take more than ten people at a time, but he was willing to perform illegal work for the right amount of cash. And he knew other pilots willing to do the job. Help doesn't always come through the spirit to fight for freedom. We would travel on the first day of the year, when the streets were completely empty and no commercial establishment was open. The iron sappers' patrol also decreased considerably and there were no human sappers working that day.

It felt like a decent plan. I couldn't fucking wait to leave South Park, although my heart always throbbed in pain at the memory of my brother and the thought of leaving him behind.

Taking a train should be a last resort, because that would take much longer and it'd be much more dangerous, but Gregory liked to think of all the things that could possibly go wrong, and he was right in doing so. At that moment, I couldn't even imagine how important that would later be.

This girl started to sob super loudly, looking like she wasn't really paying much attention to anything they were saying. Another girl was holding her tight, laying her head against her shoulder as she smoothed her hair.

"What is it, Beth?" Gregory asked with certain impatience, but keeping his professorial way. He always sounded like he was talking to children, especially in this kind of meetings.

The girl taking care of Beth – this beautiful Asian chick whose name I could never remember – smiled a little sad and answered for her. "It's alright, Gregory. She just really misses her family."

This melancholic feeling seemed to be taking over each and every one of us, that could be noticed from the moment we woke up that morning; that could be expected since it was Christmas eve. This added to the fact that most of us hadn't gone home in over a month and, most of all, the fact that we would leave our hometown in a week and had no idea when or even if we would see our families again. It was understanding that none of us was having a particularly merry Christmas.

"Gosh, poor Beth." Bebe said, stopping right next to me. "I get her so well. Sometimes I miss my mom so bad I think I won't be able to take it."

"Look, guys." Gregory said. "I understand that you want to return to the city and make your farewells during this week. And that's fine. But Standing O which are cautious, they know they can trust, didn't commit anything stupid. Each of you is s have a responsibility to this group.

"Look, guys." Gregory said. "I get it, a lot of you want to go back to the city and say your goodbyes this week. That's all well and good. But I need to ask you to be cautious, know who you can trust, don't make anything reckless or stupid. Each of you has a responsibility to this group."

His words sounded very distant to me because my attention was still on Bebe, her immense sad eyes causing this almost hypnotic effect on me. Her blond curls were dull and lifeless, falling on her shoulders.

"Don't you think about going back home?" I asked. "You're not obliged to go with us."

"Oh God. No, I could never look at myself in the mirror again if I did that." She looked down at her own feet. Bebe was wearing purple socks. "But I'd really like to know if she's okay, at least. She's not a well woman."

'Not well' would be an understatement, from what I could tell. Bebe's mother was a very sick woman, and I don't mean the diseases of the flesh. I mean those that consume one's brain until they don't know where they are or even who they are anymore. Bebe sold her own body because her mother had no condition to work. Now, without her only child, it was impossible to know how that old lady would continue to live. There has never been a father in Bebe's life. She was a daughter of the wind, her mother said. Years later, Bebe would come to discover that her poor mother had been put under the care of a neighbor newsmonger for a few of years. For reasons that would remain unknown forever, her mom got up from her bed in the middle of a summer night in 3647, took all her clothes off and entered the lake. Thus, she drowned. But for now, Bebe only hopes for the best. We didn't know any of this yet. It hadn't happened.

"I'm making eggnog tonight." She told me with a smile, refusing that ghost of guilt that seemed to anchor deep inside her a few seconds before. "I love Christmas. It's a shame that there isn't a lot of decoration, right?"

She took her hand off her brown wool poncho to caress my arm before going to the kitchen. The meeting was over.

Our small celebration did involve Christmas lights we had found in the house's attic (which, surprisingly, still worked), a wild turkey that Craig had killed with a shotgun, potato salad and too much alcohol. Kenny also found a banjo in the attic, out of tune and with two chords missing, but even so, he was especially excited to sing Christmas carols. It was easy to ignore all the shit with festive disguises. Funny how the holidays awake something strange in us, even if my family didn't celebrate Christmas, nor Hanukkah, which would be of our tradition. The whole thing had lost its religious connotation long ago, if it ever had one, but the holidays continued to be a symbolic time about union and family. And those people with whom I spent Christmas of 44 became my family.

What became impossible to ignore was the cold.

Token and Clyde spent twenty minutes trying to light the fireplace. The house's heating system didn't work and the amount of coats for this time of year was rather limited. We all walked around the house wrapped in crappy blankets, especially when we sat near the fire. It was all really fucking cozy. Stan was wrapped in a beige blanket which he opened for me to hide in there with him, saying "C'mere."

His warmth was so comfortable. He had warm blood, his skin was like a furnace. It felt so good to sleep near him in those terrible days the temperature dropped under zero. It was like we were recovering, little by little, the closeness of a lifetime that made us to spoon to sleep when we were teenagers, even when we were just friends. I don't know if we were ever "just friends" at some point. Things were getting better between the two of us. We had sex almost every afternoon in the intimacy of our bedroom, when Kenny and Cartman were occupying other parts of the house. The door had no lock and Kenny caught us a few times underneath the blankets, my face buried on the pillow and Stan's hard cock completely inside me while he hugged me from behind or beside. Fortunately, with Kenny, it wasn't so awkward. He went out almost immediately, which always made me and Stan laugh our asses off, although we didn't stop fucking. For a long time, that kind of intimacy hadn't felt so natural. Throughout the month of December, it was like the fight hadn't even existed, as if we were disconnected from the rest of the world and there was nothing but the two of us. I loved him and that was enough. It felt sufficient.

I snuggled with him under the blanket. Stan turned his face to me and smiled in his shy way, letting his hand wander through my hair. Leaning over to kiss him was instinctive, because he was already so close and this was my natural movement. He brought his hand to my face and slightly parted his lips to fit them in mine. It wasn't a French kiss, although my tongue did brush lightly on his teeth.

It didn't last long. Once the kiss was over, he smiled at me. I could see a melancholy concern growing in the dark blue of his iris.

"You okay?" He asked, as I knew he would. Many times I could guess what he was thinking even before he'd open his mouth.

"I think so. It's just a little scary. I have no idea how it's going to be out there."

"Me neither." So, diverting his gaze to Nichole, who looked so beautiful with that cream white sweater, talking to Token. She and Trent were the closest thing we had to understand how the Monarchs worked. Stan chuckled. "They don't talk much, do they? But it's gonna be fine." He assured, knowing that it probably wasn't true. This was a sublime skill Stan had. He didn't spend time and energy worrying about things he could not predict or change. This was not a common feature in many revolutionaries; we tended to be megalomaniac.

So, we began to drink. Bebe's eggnog was one of the most delicious things I had ever tasted in my whole life, but what really got to me that night was the cheapest bottle of rose wine that mostly tasted like some disgusting watery strawberry juice. Even the color was suspicious, a transparent baby pink, but it didn't matter to me because it was the first time in so long that we felt like we had reason to celebrate. In fact, we didn't. But we invented one that night. It wasn't a holiday with a festive Christmas atmosphere, but a celebration to the sadness and all the shit in life because we were tired of mourning. Only the Christmas lights were lit, creating this penumbra that transported us to another world, another dimension away from the reality of South Park, of oppression, of hungry people. That night, we weren't fighters, we weren't revolutionaries, we were nothing but a bunch of young fools, drunkards laughing of the world's doom.

I spent most of the night lying on the cushions thrown on the floor with Stan underneath the blanket, inhaling his scent, stealing his warmth, sharing the same cup with him. Near us, Kenny (very poorly) played the banjo, singing 'Jingle Bells' and 'Let it snow' several times because he couldn't remember how to play any other Christmas carol. For fuck's sake, Kenny. He made me laugh so hard. Pip also sat with us, wearing short pants that left his shins fully exposed. Worried, I offered him some warmer clothes, but he smiled and said it was all good. My chest ached a little because I recognized that tone of voice, the same one Bebe also had. It meant 'it's been like this my whole life, I'm used to the cold.'

Near the window, I saw Wendy and Bebe standing, facing each other, their silhouette forming a beautiful picture in contrast with the dark scenery of the forest outside, that could be seen through the glass. Wendy pulled away the locks of hair that over Bebe's face using both hands, then leaned forward and kissed her. I felt something warm inside me that forced me to smile. It could have been the wine. Bebe brought her light hands to Wendy's arms to hold her without untangling their bodies too much, the corners of her mouth rising in the midst of their shy kiss. I poked Stan so he'd see it too.

"Oh, my God." He spoke low to my ear, smiling even wider than I was. "That's the cutest shit."

Token also joined us, taking the banjo from Kenny, teasing him, seeming much lighter than usual. I rarely saw him making any sort of joke, even though I had known him since childhood. Token was raised to be very stern and didn't smile a lot, but when he did, it was fucking beautiful.

"Gimme that, white boy. Let me show you how it's done."

Kenny was so excited about someone actually willing to sing with him that he completely forgot to be offended. Knowing Kenny, he probably wouldn't have taken offense anyway. Token played with much more skill, but there was no fucking way to get a beautiful sound out of such an old fucked up instrument. In contrast, Token had a gorgeous voice and came up with much slower songs, most of them unknown to me. That only served to put us in a more melancholy set, which seemed to make the night exactly what it should be. We needed that. We needed to embrace the sadness. Wendy and Bebe joined us, as well as Trent with a bottle of vodka and three more people whose faces I was familiar with, but we had never exchanged a single word.

At some point, I left the warmth of our nest to go to the bathroom. The downstairs one was busy, so I went to the top floor. Going through the dark hallway, I heard a strange noise. It sounded like a squeezed weeping. There was only one room with lights on, the door ajar. I slowed down my steps to get closer to the door. It wasn't even intentional, just a body's response.

"_Why are you being such a dick about this_?!" I heard. It was Clyde.

Through the doorway, I could see Craig's figure standing with a dark blue flannel shirt, looking agitated as fuck, his feet restlessly. He ran both hands through his black hair, looking at who I assumed to be Clyde, but couldn't see from that angle. Craig was visibly upset.

"_Because you're fucking retarded! You can't see the shit that's right there in your fucking face_!"

Listening to Craig's voice sounding so out of control gave me shivers down my spine. I remembered very vaguely of Craig's voice going mad in the night that… The night I, myself, was going mad while listening to Christophe scream in the other room. That whole night was a blur in my memory, but Craig's screaming voice was still very vivid in the back of my mind, as well as Clyde's cries. All of that was still written in my flesh, the feeling still throbbed in my stomach. For a moment, I was back to that night. My stomach ached. What broke the immersion was the sound of something breaking inside the room. I found myself alone in that cold empty hallway, in complete darkness, my heart racing because of things that weren't even real, not anymore. That's what made me keep on walking. Whatever was happening in there was none of my business, as curious as it made me.

Any good observer could perceive that the discussion had something to do with the fact that Clyde looked at Bebe with eyes of a little school boy under the spell of an untouchable teacher and Craig was eaten alive by his own jealousy, but couldn't say it. Because Clyde didn't know, couldn't even dream that his best friend desired him in silence.

But like I said, it was none of my business.

After taking a piss and going back downstairs, I came across one of the most beautiful scenes I had ever seen my whole life: Kenny, with his torn voice, and Token, with his deep voice, and Wendy, with her sweet voice, all singing Silent Night together. Token was hugging the banjo, not playing it anymore, looking at the other two fellows with wet eyes. He didn't sing every part, but whispered the lyrics once in a while, closing his eyes for long seconds, lonely tears marking his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe them off.

_Silent night, holy night_  
_All is calm, all is bright_  
_Round yon virgin Mother and Child_  
_Holy Infant so tender and mild_  
_Sleep in heavenly peace_

Butters' smiling face invaded my mind.

No one else said anything, everyone had stopped talking to simply watch them sing. And the circle of people seemed to have grown. The group was under a veil of nostalgia, a pinch of small sadness that would never leave each one of us ever again. Even the colors looked lighters under the Christmas lights that bathed us all. Even so, there lived a bit of hope. Bebe wept in silence, then dried the tears from her red face, but she looked peaceful. The sadness in that room was peaceful. Then I realized that we were no longer children.

I stood there for a while at the bottom of the stairs, just watching, still holding the handrail. My eyes crossed with Stan's and he smiled, looking so lazy, blinking slowly. I smiled back.

I would keep this moment with me through everything that would happen after. It was the calm before the storm, I could already feel it inside my chest. We had no idea how destructive and violent this storm would be, and it's good that we didn't, because then we had a few more days of tranquility.

Like every magical moments, it ended too quickly. Then came the supper, which we had on the floor and there wasn't plenty of food for everyone, but it was a significant gesture.

Christophe had spent the entire night hidden, but that's also how he 'd spent the entire month. I found out he was on the balcony. Gregory was there with him most of the time, but came inside by himself to eat. I saw Christophe when Gregory opened the door to enter; he was sitting on the steps of the balcony with his back to the door and a bottle of rum at his side, his face slightly turned to the side, staring at the ground with a vacant look, distant, as if he wasn't seeing what was right in front of him. And it wasn't until actually putting my eyes on him for the first time in over a week that i realized how much I fucking missed him. The longing was eating me inside. During those seconds the door was left open, I wished more than anything that he'd turn back, just so I could at least take a good look at his face once again.

I wanted to ask Gregory if Christophe wouldn't have something to eat, but I couldn't. Because since our last conversation outside, with the ax and the wood, I finally got it. I understood that leaving him alone also meant to stop trying to take care of him. At that point, I still believed it was possible to cut him out my life. What a stupid idea.

It had been a month since I'd last heard his voice. I diverted my gaze to avoid making eye contact, I didn't speak when we were in the same room, I tried to not exist around him. And by God, how it burned. I put my hand on my abdomen and I closed my eyes for a second. It was his coldness that tore me apart more than anything. And I tried to convince myself every day that it was for the best, that it was the only option, that whatever we once had had gotten completely out of hand. We hurt each other. I hurt him. And most of the time, I was okay. I was okay under daylight, I was okay around Stan, I was genuinely where I wanted to be. I was okay.

Except when I remembered him. When those calloused hands appeared in my mind. When those honey color eyes appeared in my dreams. So, for one second or a little more than that, I was not okay. But it passed. It always passed.

"Hey." Kenny called me, placing his hand on my knee. "Everything alright there?"

I smiled, but he knew I had no desire to smile. Kenny always knew.

"I'm fine." Then, lifting my glass, I said "Merry Christmas, Kenny."

He kissed me on the top of my head and my smile became genuine.

It was 02:34 pm and the whole house was asleep. Well, maybe not the whole house. There were some lights on upstairs and a few people were still talking, preparing to sleep, but downstairs, there wasn't a single living soul left other than me. Or that's what it looked like. Little by little, the house became silent. Stan had dozed off on my shoulder near one in the morning, as he usually did when he had one too many drinks, so I took him upstairs and tucked him in as if he were a little boy. It took him a while to let go of me, smiling with his eyes closed, and I smile as I remembered that while cleaning the kitchen. Gregory and Wendy had been with me until a few minutes before, but the cleaning was practically done, minus a few dirty dishes in the sink. I told them to go to sleep, which was only fair, since they did much of the cooking while I just drank eggnog. We had a good system for community work in that house, and when we left, I would miss the feeling of home we had developed during our time there.

All the lights in the living room and outside were already off. The only source of light was a small lamp standing on the kitchen counter. I enjoyed the silence; or better, I liked the sound of water running from the tap. It was horribly cold, as well as my hands, but I had already accepted that I wouldn't be able to get warm before climbing upstairs to the warm bed that expected me, then I'd steal some of Stan's warm. At the time, he should already be drooling on the pillow.

There was a noise. It was the sound of the front door opening, but combined with something else, like something heavy hitting against the wall. I frowned, turning to look over my shoulder, holding cooking pot that began to fill with water. For a few seconds, there was nothing. I turned off the tap to listen better. My ears were already so trained to the alert of any suspicious noise, and immediately, adrenaline started to build up inside me. But I didn't move. For some reason, I felt that the sounds would be very different if the military had found us. It wouldn't be so… Awkward. Someone who's going for a night attack doesn't want to be discovered. Then what the fuck was that?

I heard footsteps, but they sounded so uneven, as if someone tripped over something in the living room. I turned my torso toward the door, still holding the pot with my wet hand and the other lost in air, awake, ready for whatever would come. I just waited. The sound ceased. Maybe someone had climbed up the stairs drunk out of their minds or just passed out on the cushions thrown on the floor. As soon as I released the air from my lungs, relaxing my muscles, a silhouette appeared in the kitchen door when I was about to turn around. And despite the dim light, it was very easy to recognize that body.

Maybe I honestly would've preferred to have seen a military man at that moment instead of Christophe's piss drunk figure as he leaned against the doorway, raising an arm for support, his head hanging a little forward, mouth ajar, eyes so alive that they almost burned me. The dense shadow covering that corner of the kitchen made him look much more intimidating than he would under the light of day. And, unlike all other interactions that we'd had in the last month, he was looking directly at me. As if there were nothing else in that kitchen.

By instinct, I diverted my gaze and turned my attention back to the pot in the sink, though I couldn't even see the fucking thing anymore because my vision was blurred. I was still not completely sober. I grabbed the edge of the pot so hard because I needed to hold on something. I shut my eyes right away. Took a deep breath. Turned on the tap again. Breathed deeply one more times. Opened my eyes. Stretched my arm to get the wet sponge, already soaked with detergent, and squeezed it with my other hand, feeling the liquid and foam dripping down my fingers. Everything was moving slowly. Painfully slow.

I could still feel him behind me, could still feel his gaze burning on my back, I could feel his breath even though he was a few feet away from me. My heart was beating so hard between my ribs that I thought it could put a fucking hole on my chest. I shivered, bringing my hand from the pot to my own chest, pinching the fabric of my sweatshirt without measuring the strength of my fingers, leaving black marks of moisture on the fabric. And everything throbbed. Everything pulsed even stronger with each step I heard him take, those fucking drunk steps he took on the kitchen ice cold floor, the sound of those boots that I knew so well. I couldn't open my eyes, simply couldn't, and perhaps the loss of vision had made my other senses go impossibly more sensitive.

Even though I could predict all of this before it happened, nothing in this world could have prepared me for his breath touching my the nape of my neck, sending shivers all through my body and my nipples with just one breath of alcohol, while his fucking broad hard chest touched my back without any boundary, any regard for the stupid rules of conduct that we had set during the day, which did not seem to make any sense now that it was just the two of us in that dark kitchen. And I got immediately hard, just from that, just from the warmth of his skin that I could feel so well, even with those thick fabrics separating us, and that animal breath invading me precisely through the back of my neck, this fragile opening to the body. A low moan came out from me when his hand, so rude, so talented, so delicate, that hand made its way underneath the edge of my sweatshirt and found direct contact to the skin of my belly. And I seethed. I seethed so much.

"What are you…?" I whispered, opening my eyes, trying to break the trance. But I couldn't. My voice was weak and breathless. "What are you doing?"

I turned my face a bit to the side, a hand still inside the pot, the other one squeezing the sponge as hard as my muscles would let me. I almost grit my teeth to contain this giant thing growing inside of me, and no matter how low the temperatures outside were, no matter how cold the water was, I was covered in sweat. It was so hard to breathe, as if I was inside a fucking steam room, a completely shut place, trapped by this body behind me that felt so much bigger and so much warmer and so…

His hand went up, sliding over my skin, while his face was approaching mine and his nose and lips brushed over my cheek as he hugged me tighter from behind. I could feel it in his touch that he wasn't completely lost in it, he still knew how wrong this was. He touched me like I was something sacred, something he shouldn't be touching, which was prohibited. And it felt so good.

"Christophe." I whispered again, my eyelids weighing, my hands shaking, my control dissipating in thin air. "Please…"

"I won't do anything." He murmured very close to my cheek, the heat of his speech making love to my skin, and then he licked his lips. I wasn't looking, but could see him anyway. With every pore of my body. I could feel that primitive look that devoured me, and at the same time, there was so much pain and affection wrapped in the same mass that pulsed inside him exactly as inside me, as if our hearts were beating exactly at the same pace by divine work. "I won't do anything…" He repeated, closing his eyes, which was a relief. Startled by the proximity of our faces, I returned to look ahead, my head leaning forward, my eyes fixed on the pot that was now overflowed with water and I hadn't even realized it, because I had never turned the pat off. "I just need a little bit of this… To feel you just a little. Please, just let me... Just for a minute."

And as much as I knew he would never say these things if he were sober, there was something so sane in his low tone, something so honest, as if he was whispering to me a secret that he couldn't even admit to himself. Suddenly, all my muscles relaxed and my heart was no longer beating in distress. It felt comfortable instead, as if that hug was my home. And it couldn't be. I had my lips parted, an expression of ecstasy, almost erotic, a feeling so intense that I'd never felt before, not even having sex. I could feel his cock pressed against me, as rigid as mine, but there was no invasion. He wasn't violating me.

He lowered his head until his forehead touched the nape of my neck. Now, his face was pressed on the top of my back, the heat of his warm breath entering through the neck of my sweatshirt and his hand squeezing me with distressing strength, his arms enveloping me with such force that it was almost hard to breathe.

"I miss you so fucking much." He mumbled, and that made me drop the sponge because all the strength suddenly left my hands. My eyes burned, tears wanted to come out, and i just let them, I lacked the strength to control the damn storm that happened inside of me.

But the presence of another person in the kitchen rescued us from this other dimension where only the two of us existed. And before I knew it, before I even had the time to get startled, his heat left me and his hand no longer laid over my skin, but somehow, it felt like it was still there. I had to support my own weight by leaning on the sink so I wouldn't fall when Christophe released me abruptly, and at the same time, Craig showed up in my field of vision, approaching the fridge, not allowing our presence to interfere in whatever it was that he came to do.

Without saying a word, Christophe rubbed his own face like his head hurt and took a few steps back, leaving the kitchen as if he had never been there.

And I was frozen. Dumbfounded. My body was still seeking for the deep feeling of that hand touching my belly, the heat lingering on my skin. I started groping at marble of the sink to turn the tap off when I realized that water could overflow. I swallowed hard, taking a harsh breath, rubbing my own hot face with my cold hands while Craig opened the fridge to grab a small glass bottle containing water.

When I heard the sound of the fridge door shutting, I turned to him and realized that he was staring at me with his black eyes.

"It's not…" I scratched my own head, confused, still not fully back to reality. "It's not what it seems, Craig."

"It's none of my business. I don't give a shit." He said with honesty, shrugging with genuine disinterest. I couldn't even tell if that was a relief or not. For a second, the presence of another person at that intimate moment gave me an indescribable feeling of relief within the chest, as if now I was pushed to recognize what I just couldn't. But when I woke up the next day, I'd certainly be relieved that those seconds on our Christmas night were no more than a drunk weak moment that none of us would want to talk about. Finally, Craig said "I'm not gonna tell."

When he turned to walk toward the door, his empty eyes remained stuck in my mind. And the image of him in the room a few hours earlier, the weak tone of his voice, the lack of vitality in his face led me to ask without thinking. "Hey. Are you okay?"

He stopped a moment to look at me over his shoulder. His feet came to a stop. His expression completely blank. Craig didn't answer me, just walked out of the kitchen. And just like Christophe, I felt that he had left something behind.


End file.
